CLOSED SIGNUPS e s o t e r i c a || DRY SEASON

FINLEY ELLIS || BOTANIST
For the ease of it all Finley had followed Thomas and condemned the man to be his tentmate. It was the easiest choice, after all. With them spending the late hours surrounding the campfire where even more terrifying stories had been shared, the types that fascinated him, but chilled him to the bone.

Needless to say, the ginger slept little. Even with the company of a trusted companion. Despite the experience he had sleeping in the out. The strange climate, the even stranger stories, and the strangest sounds all kept him awake. His heart jumping at every rustle and shadow as if the corpses were out for him.

Corpses that didn’t rot, how curious, how strange. Though he had heard of many examples of corpse-preservation, so it wasn’t out of the world, Finley’s curiosity was still piqued. Perhaps that the temple held some script on what was used to preserve the death?

The botanist gulped at the thought of having to visit that place. Perhaps if his tentmate went as well. Or if he happened to run into someone reliable, like their gunman.

The male didn’t dare to get out of his sack until the first light broke through. Terrified as he was of the treacherous dark the light was a welcoming sight, though the sun hurt his dry and sleep-deprived eyes.

To his surprise, but also to his great relief, he wasn’t the first to be up, finding that there was already life in the camp.

Unfortunately that also meant that he was to return to the burnt village.

“Well,” the man gulped, looking down at the pierced skull. “I never found the rat ears for Lung-el,” he mumbled, eyes going into the forest. The thick vegetation was a lot more homely than the bones and ashes surrounding him at the moment. However, again the male didn’t have the guts to go alone.

“Is it maybe a ritual?” Finley lamely questioned the men, though he knew that with the barest observation there were skulls left unpierced.

Why did it have to be the botanist?

The male nearly whimpered to himself out loud at the thought that with the next fire it might be his skull, bare and pierced.
 
Tatyana Volkov
Unwilling Return

She couldn't go back there. She just couldn't. Maybe it wasn't an evil thing she heard, as their guide suggested. But it was not natural, and her heart threatened to burst at the thought of hearing that chanting again. Indeed, she'd barely slept during the night at all, the hours spent instead staring up at the roof of her tent, terror and forced, dispassionate ennui fighting for domination. More than once, she'd risked a glance at the Khuman Tong where it sat on the small stool she'd been given to assist in dressing. Small bites of her meal had been laid about it as soon as she'd retreated beneath cover, as well as a sliver of writing charcoal and a scrap of paper. 'To draw with', Ana had assured herself, trying to rationalize that a child would be satisfied with it, so why not this- precious thing.

Nevertheless, sleep was evasive for nearly the whole night, and only several hours past midnight did she actually lose consciousness through sheer mental exhaustion.

The ancient stones leered down from high above her; Ana thought she could see twisted sneers in the verdant lichen illuminated by the rising Daystar, as if even nature itself despised her presence there. How? How was she at this damnable structure again!? She'd intended to remain at camp, categorizing and cataloguing! No, she would not return; the chanting would break her, if it returned. Besides, there was too much to do back at-

Her hands grasped the Khuman Tong around her neck, and she walked into the shadow of the ruin.

They were clearing the blocked opening behind the bodies. Sweat beaded on her brow, and she shivered in spite of the heat.

CRUNCH

Ana whirled around, her frayed nerves splitting entirely as she leapt bodily off the ground. In her focus, she missed seeing the latest rubble being shifted and dumped, and now she stared at Andrew with eyes as large as plates.

"Blyad'! Andrew! God." She pressed her hand against her chest. "You have startled me."
 
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Despite the oppressive heat of the jungle, Bertrum felt a chill run down his spine as he looked over the body identified as one Ingva Bromstein. Death was an unavoidable part of life; it was something that he had more than enough experience with as a medical professional. It was the violent, determined nature of what appeared to have happened to Ms Bromstein that bothered him. One of the things Bertrum took pride in was that when a patient in his care had passed away, their death’s had generally been gentle and easy. When that hadn’t been possible, at least his patients had benefited from the euphoria brought on by a generous dose of morphine. As much as it could be said, his patients died well. Ms Bromstein had not.

“At a guess I would agree with you, Finley. A ritual of some sorts would seem to fit. There are certainly easier ways to take a life than this. The reasoning behind such a ritual however I suspect is something we may have to ask our auxiliaries about. Even if they do not know why, I’d wager they can make a better guess than any of us could.” Stepping down into the shallow grave Danford was excavating, Bertrum lifted the shovel out of his colleagues hands and after allowing the man to step out began to hack at the gnarled ground. He had joined this excursion because shifting heavy rubble was not something he wished to subject his hands to. Now though the activity was nice, it kept one's mind from dwelling on uncomfortable thoughts. He didn’t let up till a particularly thick root lay severed in the dirt.

As he caught his breath, Bertrum’s eyes wandered over the rest of the group. Charles seemed as solemn and thoughtful as one would expect from a person laying friends to rest; Danford curious, and Finely... shaken. There was nothing to be done for Charles; he needed and deserved a quite a moment, but perhaps Danford presence and a light job could benefit Finely.

“Abraham, why don’t you, and young Finley go and see if you can't find a few suitable rocks or stout branches to make grave markers? I know enough of the King James for a few prayers. Lets give these poor souls the best send off we can.”​

 
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THOMAS "TOM" O'REILLY|| NAVIGATOR

He'd have to admit that seeing people around him bite their nails due to the conversation at hand deeply swayed his belief in the entire mission at hand. From the first day on, Thomas held a high skepticism over an idea of success; not because an army of the undead or something else inexplicable and alien would come and suck their brains out through their ears, but because believing in something so preposterous usually meant they were bound to lose their focus and jeopardize themselves with their own stupidity. Quickly giving up on trying to argue his way through the discussion, he rolled his eyes at Angelica's input. Grabbing the empty bottle and getting up with a grunt, he found it hard to ignore a rather ignorant and slightly insulting statement.

"Well, miss Warren", he responded with a dishonest smirk and formal courtesy, while his tone remained calm. "I ain't as educated as yerself, but I like to believe I've seen enough dead bodies to recognize one". And while Thomas had no interest in starting a beef, his tongue, helped by a strong alcohol, was rather long and without pardon. "I'd kindly suggest ya stick to yer writings and leave dead bodies and other shite to the experienced ones, right? It'll do us all good. Have a good night". He did not wait for a response nor he had any interest to dwell on it any further before he made his way back to the tent assigned to him, bottle swinging in his hand.

***

Even for someone who sleep avoided in an unhealthy amount, alcohol did somewhat of a wonder. O'Reilly found himself awake from dreamless slumber in a reasonable morning hour, just after six. The Ginger Boy at the other side of the tent ad already left his own bed and while getting up as early was nothing unusual in his book, he could also hear the disturbed kid twisting and turning under his covers just before he fell asleep himself, to the point where it was driving him insane and yet he said nothing. Surprisingly so, Thomas held a certain amount of understanding towards ginger head's fear.

Taking a moment to stare at the tent's ceiling, Thomas didn't think of many things. Once his head made it's mind about not having a headache and being fine, he sat up and got out of bed, quickly starting his day. Refreshed and ready, he marched out of the tent with one goal only; getting a strong cup of coffee. It bothered him little that it was almost unbearably hot against the rising temperature. With coffee in his system and a quick bite to go, he asked for a quick and simple run down of the situation from one of the remaining camp dwellers just before he made his way into the jungle with a light-hearted whistle. A bird seemed to have responded in the distance.

***

As it usually was the case, his morbid curiosity did not allow him to stay too far away from the main events at hand, and while he was more than grateful that he had an allowed day off from entering those uncomfortably tight tunnels again, sitting back and missing out sounded even worse. Luckily, there was a third option. 'Luckily' being relative and extremely loosely used.

Exiting the road paved through the jungle growths, Thomas found himself on the clearance where several others were already present. He had studied the scene briefly before he lowered his gaze back down to his notebook marking down the position of the place with few notes. Satisfied with it after he glanced it over once more, O'Reilly packed it back into his satchel, approaching the group of men. Before he said anything, his eyes skipped from one corpse to the other being prepared for burial as decent as men could achieve from where they were.
Not much was left of the unfortunate, but even without much to go on but piles of bones and tattered cloths, seeing the ungodly way the arrows were struck through one of the skulls painted quite clear image of it not being a pleasant death. Finley and Bertrum exchanged several words as he approached the graves. As always, Finley Ellis seemed like he would lose it right then and there. Thomas reckoned with a nod that Bertrum's idea to remove the boy was a hell of a good one.

"Is this all of them?" Thomas asked taking off his satchel and rolling up his sleeves. It was a genuine question, but one he didn't really demand an answer to. Asked in such a cold and pragmatic way, it sounded more like a soldier asking for a rundown rather than a person sympathizing with the loss of another. Without saying much or stating his intentions further, he made his way towards Charles, clearly ready to take over and ready to argue his way over it.

"Take five, mister Greene", he borderline ordered to the American as he extended his arm towards the shovel the man held, "I can take it from here". Surely, his motives for it were humane, but their execution rather frigid.

@Doctor Jax
@Nemopedia
@Applo
 
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Inside the Temple

@Red Thunder

Andrew was unprepared for Ana's shout, and he himself jumped. After the night before, he was himself a bundle of nerves, too aware of the things he'd seen. He was not a man prone to discounting the supernatural, not after his many journeys, and he was suddenly grateful that he had browbeat Charlie for added hazard pay. It seemed he wasn't the only one who was on edge, either.

"Startled you? About messed my britches, you did," Andrew stated with an awkward chuckle, running a dirty hand through his short blonde hair. He could see that Ana sported the same dark circles he did. Odd -- it seemed like only he, Peter, and Ana were afflicted by that sleeplessness. He recalled the Russian's sudden and unceremonious dash out of the temple the day before, and his eyebrows drew together with concern.

Was her abrupt flight related to what he and Peter had seen?

"I'm honestly surprised to see you here. Yesterday seemed to give you a real fright, Ms. Volkov. I know that this ain't exactly a sight for a lady of your disposition to be seein'..."

"AY! Manee, manee lao, lao lao!! Doo see, doo, tukyang ja th-ai, Mae!!"

Andrew acted as if he had not heard the voice, that of a young by of no more than seven. In fact, it seemed no one else had heard the shout, originating from near the rubble. A young boy, six or seven, was attempting to get Ana's attention, seemingly invisible to everyone present, standing upon a piece of rock that should have toppled beneath his weight. He wore rags, his hair long and unkempt, a beggar boy, though his face was now clean. He was pointing to an auxiliary - Taumai - as he moved the rubble, growing careless that his pile had begun to grow top heavy. The boy was screaming gibberish at her, flitting about, only able to see move small rocks out of the way, no bigger than a pebble.

"Our plan's to move as much of this rubble as we can, then blow the rest of with some detonation caps. There's a table and some chairs over there, if you want to take a sit, get your wind back. Even managed to scrounge up some lemonade," Andrew said, his calm tone at odds with the screaming warnings going on behind him, the boy's voice reverberating within the temple walls. And under that voice, there was an ever-present chant...


***
It was good to get it off her chest, to know that her father was aware. And perhaps it was that, in the year he had been gone, he had had the time to grieve over her mother, knowing that that last time at the docks was his final memory of her. And perhaps, that was the reason he had thrown himself even deeper into studying the stele even as Angela took a seat, the oppressive heat causing her to sweat.

But dare she say it... he seemed hopeful. Almost a kind of peace. She remembered feeling guilty about that, herself. And guilt that they had not been able to find that panacea which they toiled so hard to obtain. She rubbed her arms, looking instead to the semi-circle of monks mummified upon their platforms in perfect lotus positions. A thrill of unease passed through her. She had seen death so close only one other time, and at Roland's death, she had been carefully shielded from the grim reality of his grisly suicide.

It appeared she owed Mr. O'Reilly an apology. These were indeed corpses. The spirited young woman couldn't seem to take her eyes off them now that she'd got a good look at them.

And there was something out of place about them. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Finally, she stood up, walking over to the bodies in macabre interest. It was less the men themselves... and the pedestals upon which they sat, one of them empty at the end. It was this empty pedestal she examined. The more she looked at it, the more she was sure that this was a later addition. But what could that mean? Maybe it was an evolution of these unnamed peoples' religion surrounding soma--

"Angie? Wha' are you doing over there?"

Her head whipped around to her father looking at her with concern, still near the stele.

"I think these pedestals were built some time after the original temple's construction," the young woman stated as she knelt to the floor. Yes - the patterns in the floor were nine-fold, a perfect Vedic number, but the pedestals weren't aligned with them. Quite the opposite, in fact. They seemed haphazard in comparison. "The style of the pedestals is far more rough and simplistic, ascetic, in comparison with the rest of the temple. And they're not set in the floor with the same thought. See? They don't line up with the patterns, despite everything else in the temple following the nine-fold motif."

She looked up, her eyes on her father, who seemed deep in thought.

"Perhaps they se've as a warning, then," Henry postulated to himself softly, eyes seeming far off. "As heretics. Good ca'ch, Angie."

The girl beamed at her father's praise as he paced, staring at the monks.

"I had been 'hinking wi' 'e shpeed at which we are moving, that it would be worfwhile to remove these fellows and then use a larger charge to wid us of th' rubble. I'd like to put it to a vote later. 'hen we can examine these men at our leisure."

Angelica's expression drew back from its prideful countenance at that. Move them... but they were so fragile.

"I'm... not so sure about that, Papa. I think that moving the rubble by hand should be enough. We risk damage to the rest of the temple as well."

"Well -- 'at's what pictures are for, right?" Henry joked, despite Angie's discomfort. "Oh, I jest, dear, I jest. We'll keep every'hing in tact, don' worry."


***
Welcome to the Jungle

@Nemopedia @Ritual Lobotomy @Applo
Greene only dimly heard what was going on in the background, Danford still musing to himself out loud.

"...right that this is more than likely some kind of... ritual, but surely it had a purpose," Danford stated, scratching his head. "Poor sods... My apologies, Mr. Greene."

Danford's youthful visage morphed to surprise at being called, before understanding crossed his features hearing Bertram's suggestion. Yes - it seemed that poor Finley was losing his nerve out here, the gentleman increasingly agitated by stories of ghosts and whatnot. Well -- Danford was likewise a man of science and he didn't believe in such nonsense, though it made for a good tale. And Finley was himself a man of science, wasn't he?

"I think I saw a good pile of stones we might use. Come on, Fin, let's do this quickly. I hear that someone made a limeade back at camp, and I would be more than happy to try it out," Danford stated, his sunny disposition ever-present as he led Finley towards a different part of the jungle, away from the aftermath of long ago carnage.

As soon as they were far enough out, the doctor stated, "You look a bit pale -- yes, I know you're pale by nature, but more so than usual. Are you doing alright, chap? You seem under the weather and a bit tired, if I might be so bold as to be frank."

Danford began to turn over stones, looking for ones of a good enough size to use as headstones for the newly buried.

Meanwhile, back at the new grave site, Greene looked up as he realized he was being addressed by their navigator. The American looked about at the number of bodies yet to be buried.

"No. It wasn't all of them. We're yet missing Edmund Ably, Noah Fitzgerald, Arm Teerangvicht... a few others. But I do think we got the majority of them. Scavengers made off with the rest, I would suppose. There's no use trying to find them," Greene stated, wiping his forehead with the back of a hand. The clearing was full of the chatter of other creatures, daylight beaming down upon them in squalid heat. The command to sit and take a breather was met with immediate indignation from the athletic American, but realizing that perhaps he was working himself into a lather, he did as told.

"This makes little sense to me regardless. Natives and our team, both dead, but not by bullets, not by the hand of some other competing group heretofore unknown... Who were we fighting? And who were they?" Charlie muttered to himself as he looked about, fingering his mustache in deep thought, nudging the shaft of a spear left behind. "If able... if able, I'd like to see if we can find anything that belonged to the last team. Records, effects of the team, anything at all. I am determined not to allow this to rest."

And on top of that, he needed to get back to camp and write a letter. Something didn't sit right with the financier.
 
Tatyana Volkov
Rocks Fall; Everyone Dies

Her chest rose and fell deeply as Ana steadied her nerves. This damned ruin. This damned venture. Even if she herself survived, her heart might not.

"I am sorry about your britches," she managed to chuckle, the corner of her mouth pulling back in a wry smile. Never would she have considered as journeyed and experienced a man as Andrew to be frightened by anything, let alone a sudden curse. And yet, just as he noticed her own general discomfort not entirely related to the sudden noise, so she, too, noticed his. Yet, he had not been with her within the ruin last night, so what could have so unsettled him?

It was certainly not the awful, babbling exclamations that suddenly filled the stone chamber. Indeed, he himself carried on in something of a patronizing manner, elaborating on disposition or some such. Indeed, had Ana not been so violently distracted, she might have loosed her own tongue, letting it spew pent up vitriol long contained concerning the State of Things, both in St. Petersburg and here in this god-forsaken jungle.

As if it were on a spring, for all the leaping it was doing, Ana's heart lodged in her throat, the boy's cries an assassin's knife to her ears. He had not been there previously; she took pride in her memory as a journalist. Nor should he have remained where he now perched; he should have fallen and sustained fairly severe injury. Instead, he remained, rambling and jabbing a finger towards an auxiliary. Ana, her attention very clearly no longer on her conversational partner, cast her gaze to where the boy pointed. The man, Taumai, perhaps? was laboring diligently, clearing the rubble as he'd presumably been ordered.

And still Andrew made no reaction, nor did anyone.

"Hm? Lemonade? Er-" Ana blinked hard, brow furrowing as the damnable chanting of the night prior began to worm its way into her mind. She gestured. "Mr. Andrew, what is that auxiliary's name? His pile looks unsteady, yes? Perhaps he should stop?"
 
PETER O'KEEFE || RIFLEMAN
Location: Temple
Cool water sluiced down flushed skin. Peter took another handful of the river and smacked it roughly against his face, eyes squeezed shut against the silt residue.

There was no one else down by the riverbank. No eyes were there to witness the maddening task that the rifleman had undertaken, upon which the man himself was at a loss to explain. It was perhaps a mock baptism, for he did seek absolution. Absolution from his thoughts, his mind - a relentless machine that ceased to stop, not even when its continuation resulted in self-injury.
Peter drew in a deep breath, then another. His eyes cracked open, dulled with stress.

He thought he’d had her. His wife, his Delia. Last night he’d dreamt he’d been home again, walking up the dirt path off the main road, there yonder by the thick grove of oak trees. First there, then inexplicably in his home, next his bedroom, where Delia had sat brushing her hair by the window. She’d seemed entirely oblivious to his presence.

I feel poorly, acushla.

He’d gone to hold her. Even in his dream there’d been a burning need to see her, if only for a moment. His fingers had wound closed about her arm, turning her ‘round to him--

And that’s when he’d seen her. His wife, his Delia, with a tattered stake shoved through her skull and her jaw half gone, blood flowing freely from her face to the floor. Four words had shuttered forth through a gaping maw.

I feel poorly, acushla.

Feverishly, Peter drew another scoop of water and let it pour freely down the crown of his head. He stayed there a moment, frozen in his crouch.

It was unclear how much time passed before he eventually rose, half-drowned and wan, and set off back to camp. There was little else he could do now but work, tired though he was. He remembered somewhat vaguely that he’d been assigned to clear rubble within the temple, or something of the other, so go Peter did, entering the stone belly of the beast.

Someone had gone ahead and laid alight the interior. Much of the pillars and vaulted ceiling were covered in friezes he did not care to decipher: what looked to be fanged beasts wielding swords jockeyed for space with angelic, winged figures. The ancient artwork stopped short at just about his height, where stone had evidently met the brutal force of some man-made tool. Peter glanced about himself. It was the same throughout; not one wall or pillar had been left in peace, and the man wrung his hands about themselves.

It was...queer, to say the least. Disconcerted, he pushed on, following the noise emanating through the halls.

He found the source of all the hustle and bustle further within. Peter’s eyes swept over the wholly ungodly mess, noting rather absentmindedly the figures gathered there. There was Mr. Warren and his daughter, Andrew and Ana, each pair respectively locked in conversation. Just as well. Decidedly not in the socializing mood, Peter slipped past ‘round the the massive stele in the centre towards the sound of rocks being shifted--

SAINTS BE!

A wheeze escaped his lips. Staring hard at the bedamned circle of corpses, Peter’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, a cold sweat breaking over his skin.

“Oh - ehm...Feckin’-”

There was a grunt of exertion from behind him. Tearing his eyes away, he was relieved to see Taumai only some feet away, grasping what appeared to be a massive stone from the floor.. Hurriedly, he rushed to his side, grateful for the immediate distraction.

“Here’s a hand, fellow.” With a grunt, Peter went alongside Taumai, grasping the large rock he held. “I’ll take a-hold of it. Give ‘er here.”
 
bcf178839af0b59a600dd03c50ea4132.jpg
Alex had been gone for hours. Greene had been true to his word and had followed her to the site that dawn, agreeing to return when the sun shed more light at the village with more men. She, on the other hand, had been allowed to do her job as she thought best and that's exactly what she did. She silently slipped away into the thicket, searching.

She had not liked the events they had uncovered and she needed answers. It was a good thing she was an experienced tracker and had decided to get a tribe necklace she had managed to find relatively unscathed. Deep in the rainforest, almost impossible to find, she managed to track a family of survivors. Unfortunately for her, the language was so old and the poor things were so traumatized that Alex had stayed only for a little it. She did not wish to upset them more than they already were. She now had a clearer idea of what had happened.

Coming up from a different part of the site previously explored, her eyes narrowed. Carvings. Burned off but still somewhat discernable. They were far more elaborate and different than the tribes she knew would be able to make. Perhaps their scholars would be able to make some sense out of those, so Alex picked up a few of the scattered pieces and placed them in her sack, already partially filled by some rat ear fungus and other edible bits and pieces of fruits, nuts and fungi she had found during her treck in the forest. It would have been a shame if she didn't help Taumai in his cooking by adding some extra flavor to their meals.

Finding Greene and their navigator talking, Alex made her presence known coming out of the thicket with a serious expression on her face as the sight of the carnage was in full display for her once more. "We need to talk Mr Greene. I found survivors of the tribe and something that your niece might want to examine." She said, patting her satchel.
 
Inside the Temple

@Red Thunder @Kuno

Andrew Locke frowned at the words that Ana spoke, looking back over his shoulder just as Peter made a beeline for the young man to help him with a heavy rock. And up above them... a teetering rockfall waiting to happen, unbeknownst to them as they moved the rubble.

"Hey! HEY! Boys!! Move it!! The thing's 'bout to topple, you f--!!"

There was a crunch of stone against stone, as finally the largest of the debris gave way with Peter and Taumai having moved a supporting rock from beneath the pile. A boulder the size of a large dog, and its smaller rocky brethren, tumbled down the incline towards them in a waterfall. It happened quickly, and with their hands full, it was hard to get out of the way. The sound was cacophonous, a chain-reaction of rocks falling against vines, most of the debris beginning to shift. Dust kicked up high, causing those around them to cough, and immediately the other auxiliaries and associated company were headed to the two men.

"Taumai!"

"Oi, Pete!"

"Hey, you alright?!"

"Mr. Srongvacht! Mr. O'Keefe!"

The dust began to clear away from the two men. It seemed that, for the most part, they had both been spared, though there was a large and ugly looking gash on Peter's left leg from knee to ankle across his shin, Taumai's foot flattened in his shoe. Andrew skidded to a stop beside them, taking a look at the damage. At the least, it didn't look like any rocks had buried them, though Taumai was groaning something fierce. The foot was, more than likely, broken. Andrew cast his eyes back to the pile of debris. He'd wanted to blow it from the start, but he'd been explicitly told to... avoid demolition as much as possible, to preserve the structures around them.

"Back! All of you, back! Another slide happens, you're in the middle of it too. Come on, get, especially you Ms. Warren, I know you want t' help, but you're best out of the way. Mawvan, Muhammad, get up here, let's move these chaps," Andrew said, motioning over the two Asian auxilliaries. It was evident, however, that neither was walking.

"Here, chaps, le's ge' 'em pulled back over here," Henry gently motioned, directing them to put both men against the stele in the light to get a better look at their injuries. With the dust and gloom, it was difficult to see.

Blood splattered the stones around them, a bright contrast to the dark, almost black stone.


***
Welcome to the Jungle

@Nemopedia @Ritual Lobotomy @Applo

The financier looked up as he saw that their resident tracker was coming back. For all his misgivings, the woman had been stalwart and knowledgeable about the terrain, its people, and general sense amidst the jungle. It looked like her journey had been somewhat fruitful, given the fact she was now headed back with a full bag and... something else.

"Thomas, don't bother burying them deep. Waste of effort. We'll give 'em the best burial we can manage, but that's really all we can do for them now," Greene sighed. He had to think about the living, not just the dead, much as he hated to treat them with so little of this last human kindness. Alas - there wasn't much other choice. He looked over to the smallest skeleton - Ingrid, no doubt, she had been a tiny woman, if fierce - and he did feel some small regret.

"--shouldn't be doing this, Charlie. It's not ours to take."

"Ingrid, you've not a single idea what we're up against. It's paramount we do this. We need to do this."

"Herr, what is this about? Huh? Tell me. Tell me, damn you, what is this about? Don't walk away from me! Charlie--!!"


He frowned, Ingrid's skull seeming to stare accusingly at him. He could hear it, clear as day, but couldn't remember anything else. What were these-- these visions?

Not visions. Memories. They were memories.

"Hm?" Greene said, whipping around to see Alex with her bag. He nodded, hands on his hips as he stood up. "Fantastic! Survivors, you said. Did you get anything out of them? Come now, hup hup, we're wasting the daylight. It might be important."

He needed to talk to Henry. Badly. Something just wasn't sitting right. Not at all.
 
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Tatyana Volkov
Taking Walking for Granite

There was a shift, a small movement of rubble, then the entire pile moved. It was as if someone had pushed it from behind, or so it seemed to her. Ana's mind was still on edge, being in this place. Paranoid beyond reason, or perhaps not, given her experience thus far. Disembodied chanting and strange children appearing suddenly in dangerous places was her normal, and such a mundane event as a landslide simply did not register as natural in origin.

She screamed before she knew it, the sound tearing from her throat as if trying to blast the stones away by volume alone. Dust rushed into the air, clogging it with detritus. Ana buried her nose in the neck of her blouse, seeking cleaner, easier breaths. What had happened? The rumbling had died down, save for some small tinkling of pebbles as they sought a resting place. Ana squinted, trying to pierce the sudden gloom as she waved her free hand before her. People began calling names, checking on the well-being of those in danger's path.

"Andrew?" she echoed the sentiment. "Mr. Locke?"

"Mr. O'Keefe!"

Peter! When the devil had that one wandered in? 'Friend' was perhaps too strong a term, but he was the closest acquaintance she had here. She rushed up, her heart tight. He looked okay, fortunately, though his companion looked worse for the wear. Not that there was much for her to do on their behalf: she had neither the training nor the tools to assist, and she was little more at this moment than an obstacle for the auxiliaries to navigate around as they extracted the injured parties.

Instead, she did what she was trained and equipped to do: she chronicled. Pulling her notepad and charcoal pencil, Ana stepped aside a respectable distance from the sight of the small disaster and began to write everything that she saw down.
 
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Do no harm.

Digging could not ever be an unobtrusive activity. Even in the softest, loamiest of soils, the act of driving a shovel through earth is a noisy one. The twisting roots and rocks that littered the dirt that technically counted as soil in the rainforest made the act of digging about as subtle as a starter's gun at Ascot. Despite this, Bertrum endeavoured to do his best not to overly disrupt the atmosphere; or at least he did until the scout who had been so indecorous the night before shattered it. Some people couldn’t help themselves.

Fortunately, for her sake, the woman brought news that pleased Mr Greene, not that Bertrum had much time to think about it. Almost immediately another voice rang out through the trees, shouting for a doctor. It took Bertrum a moment to realise that they were calling for him; he still had a shovel full of dirt when Andrej burst into the clearing chest heaving and sweat dripping from their brow. Why the dutch auxiliary had been running was explained quickly enough and in less than a minute the doctor found himself sprinting through the jungle after the man; branches whipping at him as they sped through the dense foliage towards the camp to retrieve his supplies.

On arriving at the site of the accident, Bertrum didn’t waste time asking questions like how did this happen? Partly because Andrej’s jabbering at the grave site had told him enough, but mostly because the doctor wasn’t sure he had enough breath left to blow out a candle let alone talk coherently. Instead, he dropped to his knees and let his training take over. While the circumstances that had caused the injuries were new to him, the injuries themselves were not.

Of the two injured parties, the local auxiliary seemed in the most immediate need and that was where Bertrum started. After instructing Andrej to remove the man’s boot, he used his finger tips to gently probe and manipulate the injured foot, noting how the man squirmed and groaned in reaction to his touch.

“I think it is safe to say something is broken. Hard to tell what exactly, feet are an absolute buggery of bones.”

Standing up, Betrum paced over to where he had dropped his bag and rummaged through its contents until he found a small bottle wrapped in a cloth. Ether was an old friend of the doctor. A quick sniff of it always made patients much easier to treat and to that end, Bertrum poured a few drops of pleasant smelling liquid onto the neat little cloth before returning to his patient and holding it under the man’s nose. After a few moments Taumai’s whole body seemed to relax, just like Bertrum had been sure it would.

“Mr Locke, could you organise a stretcher for this poor chap? I’ve given him some ether to take away the pain, but I’d rather take another swing at finding the break back at camp.”

Not waiting for an answer moved onto the injured soldier and what would hopefully be an easier diagnosis. The wound was certainly more apparent and legs were more familiar, less complicated territory.

“Does it hurt anywhere else Mr Keith.”

“No, no I’m alright-”

The Mr. “Keith” in question stopped as a sputtering cough interrupted him. The cough was faintly heard over the lingering ringing in his ears; coughing still in the dust, he glanced up at the good doctor, eyes squinting in the gloom.

Either he’d hit his head, or all the dust had addled his head some, for the English doctor’s fair facade blurred at the edges.

“‘S not so bad, hardly worth a fuss. A fair bit of patching, and I’ll be right as rain.”

Spoken like a man entirely ignorant of his own injury. As he slowly became oriented, his bloodied leg cried out in agony, the torn skin burning as air met the open wound. Tentatively, he attempted to flex it, and immediately a sharp exhale escaped him as pain shot up his side.

“Taumai,” He managed through clenched teeth. “Is he alright?”

“He will be. He won’t be setting any speed records for a while, but he will be fine in time. Just try to keep still for me there.”

Resting one hand against the Irish man’s knee, Bertrum caught the ankle of the same leg with his other hand, steadying the limb, so he could examine it. The cut was a nasty one; the bony part of the leg was a pain. The skin was so thin that stitching it back together was pretty much impossible. Compared to a broken bone though, the injury was a light one. Whether or not the man was hiding something more serious behind a mask of bravado was impossible to tell. Bertrum was content to take at Peter at their word. His patients back home had always been uncommunicative. If the man did have another injury, the truth would out soon enough. Pain was hard to hide.

“I have ether if you would like something to take the edge off. A good dressing should see this right in a week or two. Cleaning the wound is going to sting to high hell though.”

Peter nodded, his face caught in a grimace. “No ether for me, but thank you kindly. I’ll manage.”

He hardly trusted the noxious concoction, nor did he think it’d do a lick of good against the pain. Besides - it could hardly be worse than injuries he’d already sustained.

Not wanting to watch, the Irishman’s view panned the other way, where he watched the limp form of Taumai worriedly.

“As you please.”

Returning to his bag, the Doctor deposited the ether safely back inside it’s cavernous interior only to replace it with another, much larger bottle. Bearhugger whiskey read the label. It was in Bertrum’s opinion, undrinkable muck, but that was fine. It was strong enough to curl your nose hairs and if reports were to be believed, if left long enough would melt its way out of the bottle. Taste wasn’t why the stuff had ended up in his medical bag. A tightly wound bandage and a fresh cloth also found their way into the doctor’s pockets before the man resettled himself to Peter’s side.

“If you’re ready, let us proceed shall we.” Uncorking the bottle made Bertrum wince slightly as the vapours hit him and for a moment the doctor’s eye teared up. “On the count of three.”

The amber liquid sloshed down Peter’s leg on two, mixing with the blood and pooling in the dirt by the auxiliaries foot.

It was a small mercy that Peter had pressed his fist against his lips in anticipation. He found little solace in his teeth clamping down against the knuckle, though it helped to dampen the strangled cry that tore unbidden from his lungs. His entire body seized as searing pain seemed to course from his very bones. His head bucked back, and he squeezed his eyes shut, desperately sucking in air through his nose.

“Fucking hell - Lord Jesus Christ above, fuck-” The words all slurred together in one big exhale.

“Quite.”

Working quickly Bertrum wiped the area around the raw wound with the cloth before quickly winding a bandage around the stricken appendage. It was surprising how familiar it felt everything considered. The dressing would need to be redone properly back at camp when Peter had had a chance to recuperate but the results in front of the doctor were good enough for farm work as one of his uncles was want to say.

“There, that should do for now. Ummm, Andrej, if you would help Mr Keith back to camp that would be capital. Please do try to keep the weight of that leg for now.”

Despite the agony in his flesh, Peter turned his head as best as he could, staring at Taumai. He took a shuddering breath, searching in vain for what he could say.

“Taumai, Taumai, I-”

Peter’s hands grasped fruitlessly at the air, a pained expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, I...I wasn’t paying attention, I don’t know why I didn’t see it...”​

A collaboration with @Kuno
 
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Findings In The Forest
a collab with @DayDreamer and @Ritual Lobotomy

Perhaps the grave was still a bit on the shallow side, but as if he was reading Tom's thoughts, Greene was quick to assure him it would be enough and the Irish nodded solemnly. He spoke as he leaned down to move the body towards the hole. "Yer not gonna find much 'round here. A small search in a reasonable radius around this place is what we can do. Perhaps we can put miss Alex to a good use. But I say don't do it for the dead, mister Greene. Do it for the living. I've imagined kissing my arse goodbye in many different ways. And this ain't one of them. Though it would be an interesting final experience, ay?" He chuckled at his morbid jest.

Laying the body down, Tom's attention was briefly stolen by a movement in the greenery behind the American. He straightened up halfway, his face tensing until a familiar face came out through. "Aye. Speak of the devil," he commented briefly at the sight of Alex, resuming his efforts to adjust the body as the guide addressed Greene.

“"See? What did I tell ya?" Thomas responded with a smirk. “Ya didn’t even have to tell her anything.”

Just as the excitement seemed to be dying down, a very excited individual rushed right in, shouting through the jungle. The man addressed the doctor and without much hesitation, Bertrum took off after him. Thomas did not think much of it, there was nothing else he could do in the current situation but silently take over the digging. With a bit of fortune and a lot of doctor's skill, he wouldn't have two more graves to dig along the way.

The jungle was thick with the sound of wildlife, the air around them a tangle of different calls, screeches, and trills. It seemed every animal of God’s kingdom were at home here— and for that, Greene was grateful. He would much rather there be such noise than the oppressive silence inside the temple.

He looked between Thomas and Alex, heart in his throat. Nevertheless, he stood tall with arms crossed over his chest.

“Well? Out with it, now. What did you find? We’ve not all day, Ms. Smith,” Greene stressed.

Alex shook her head at the man’s impatience and anxiety. “Carvings of a tribe that I have never encountered and that should definitely not be around these parts. I am sure your scholars would want to have a look.” She said and pulled one of the pieces out of her satchel for demonstration purposes, revealing her bag to carry more of these as well as foodstuff.

A simple information was enough to intrigue the Irish, and he kept peeking in their direction as he was filling the ditch.

“The survivors were not very helpful either. Whatever took place was traumatizing and their language is ancient, many of the words they used did not make sense. Whether it was the terror or the dialect I cannot be sure.” She frowned and looked at Greene with an inquisitive glare. She remembered the fear in the family. It went as far as trying to block her words from reaching their ears using cloth. “They kept asking me if I was with the pale men. If we had found the tree, if we had drank the tree or from it.” She shrugged lightly. “I was lucky to even get as much out of them. They were afraid of even listening to me talk. I did not wish to agitate them more.”

While she had been part American, in her heart, she felt more Siamese. She distrusted westerners and their motives. She questioned their methods even though she had used some of them before. But it had all been on her terms and had to do with her survival. She had no one to look out for her, so she didn’t look out for others unless it didn’t put her neck at risk.

“Don’t mind me askin’,” Thomas spoke as he worked up the sweat. “But doesn’t it sound like one hell of a folk tale? Apparitions, curses, strange unexplainable deaths,” he smirked. “Nothing unexplainable here. Whoever it was, did not like them bein’ here, savagely murdered every white they could and every native that fraternized with the enemy. That’s what we need to know not to make the same mistake. The more time we spend on folk tales and scared natives, the less time we have to properly protect ourselves.” If he was being honest, playing a haunted house was becoming just a bit tiring.

“I’d say that Tom here is right. We’re a rational people, and rationale is our motto,” Greene agreed, nodding to the navigator. “I suggest we take these to Angelica and Henry. They’re the ones who might have an idea what these or from, or when. Hell, Henry might even know those people you talked to.”

And he still needed to speak to him. Things just didn’t feel right. There was something afoot, though what he had not the foggiest idea.

“Let’s finish up here, head back to camp. Sound good?” Greene asked.
 
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It Starts With Blood

The bustle of man and stone finally began to clear from the temple as Mawvan and Muhammad managed a stretcher with Taumai aboard, dripping blood onto the nearly black stones. Andrew directed the others out and away from the carnage, calling an end to the day's work after such a fiasco. He hurried to help Andrej lift the wounded Peter to his feet. Within minutes, the temple was again clear, its only inhabitants the corpses of monks long dead, staring ahead at the stele before them. The dust settled, the light spilling through the roof onto the white stone in contrast to the dark rock friezes about them.

The blood had pooled, the smallest of amounts, before it, and in tiny dribbles it began to fill the divots carved into the rock before the stele. Slowly, the fresh blood seemed to run in reverse, into the dark recesses of the stele, only to disappear.

Within moments, away from the eyes of the men who had but moments been there, the stone was clean as freshly driven stone. The monks maintained their vigil, the only witnesses to the phenomena.


* * *​
When at last Greene headed back to the camp with his gravediggers in tow, the good doctor and his patients were likewise back at the camp in a bustle. Andrej and Andrew had elected to plop Peter down with Lung El, the older guide quickly brewing together a tea to take the pain away, at least for the time being. Taumai, however, was in need of more aggressive treatment, carted on a stretcher towards a tent newly-designated for the occasion. Greene's eyebrows furrowed as he approached Andrew standing next to Peter and giving Lung El direction.

"...and we should probably start boilin' water fer bandages, get 'em clean, because it looks like we'll need it. Jesus Christ..."

"What the devil is going on, Andy?" Greene asked as he jogged up to him with shovel in hand. The blonde captain looked up and he gave a short huff, his ire up.

"What's goin' on is tryin' to move the rubble by hand's not lookin' like it's workin'. There was a rockslide, about took off Taumai's foot, and it hit Peter here in the leg," Andrew stated, doing his best to contain his frustrations. However, Greene could read his friend's discontent easily enough.. The man was upset, no doubt, that he had not agreed with Greene and Angelica's wish to maintain the integrity of the place. He still snorted nonetheless, rubbing the back of his neck in the heat.

"Well... naught to do now but let the chaps rest up, then, I guess--"

Abruptly there was a sound overhead, a whirring noise. Greene and Locke looked to each other with sudden understanding and dismay, before turning their eyes to the sky. They quieted, scanning the trees above them. How close could they be?

"Andrew--"

"I'm already on it. Up you get, Peter. Boys! Cover that fire! Make like we were never here! Ms. Volkov, your camera! You'll want pictures of this!" Andrew said. There was a reason they had built camp so close to the tree line. Greene was already headed to Alex and Thomas again.

"Take as much as you can into the tents with you, and hide," Greene ordered quickly. "Pots, pans, tables, whatever you can manage, just get it out of sight."

Anyone who'd been to civilization knew what that sound was.

It was an airship. Someone, somewhere, was searching for them.

So.... I'm late. As per usual. But things are heating up! It looks like you don't have much time, you better find you a darn good place to hide, because you blow this for everyone, and that three thousand dollars is gone-zo, my friends. Grab what you can, and run for the trees! Be sure to pick a buddy. :) My hope is to crank this one out as fast as possible with GM-relevant posts because it's going to get spicy from here on out. @Red Thunder @Kuno @Nemopedia @Ritual Lobotomy @Applo @DayDreamer
 
Ana, Ana
A collaboration between @Red Thunder and @Nemopedia

There was so much dust in the air. Even as auxiliaries and primaries leapt to action to rescue and remove those injured, Ana had stood aside, making notes in her personal shorthand in order to later recall it for the eventual report.

Assuming the expedition wasn't cut short. Again.

Coughing, she watched carefully as the casualties were extracted to safety. The room's occupants were filing out, leaving the chaos that they had caused, a scar of activity in the dead chamber. Like a cloud descending, the dust filtered down, obscuring the sight of what had until recently had been so crystal, almost disturbingly, clear. Gripping the charm below her blouse in vain effort to steady her nerves, Ana gave the seated dead one last, uneasy look before fleeing with as much dignity as she could muster, bringing up the rear of the party.

The camp was, for all the disorganization they had managed given the circumstances, a beacon of safety to the journalist. Nor were the temple excavators the only people returning. Soon after her team broke into the clearing, the other returned. As there was little enough she could do for the Taumai or Peter, Ana navigated the tents to intercept them. What had they been up to? She had to know. It was, after all, her job, and while she could only be in one place at a time, she still needed to record the goings-on of everyone involved. For posterity.

The first person she saw was Finley. Mr. Ellis was making his way through the underbrush as she approached him.

"Mr. Finley!" Her bloodhound nature took over, and she drew uncomfortably close, coming to a stop less than a foot from her target. "Mr. Finley! The jungle! What is it you have found? There are ruins, yes? Anything of note?"

Finley was very much not in any condition to be interrogated, or to meet the Russian so close to his own face, startling him out of his thoughts. A gnarly side-effect after that the redhead had shut his own mind down at the sight of the skulls, his words desperate trying to grasp on any leads as he only just realised the sound of uproar, a sharp warning from Greene that told them to hide accompanying with.

“I- ah, skulls! We found skulls and rituals, or not, the camp, it was…” the man spoke, his sentences breaking off after each word as he wasn’t quite sure what to focus on, feeling himself quite overwhelmed. The sound of panic, the rush of air, the dust coming up, the chaos of the camp, the former camp, the former team.

“Hide, yes, hide,” he mumbled to himself quite absent-mindedly as he was quick to grab hold onto Ana, the only warm body near and so much more stable on her legs than he was. “No ruins, only the camp, do they count?”

Belatedly the words of earlier registered as Finley looked around for a place to hide, deciding that the thick vegetation of the bushes were enough of a shelter, maybe he would even find a rabbit hole that would lead him back to the homeland, or maybe elsewhere, for this was certainly not wonderland.

“Ana, Ana, here,” Finley spoke in a hushed voice, already sitting and crawling himself up into a ball as he threw his arms around his knees. “Here, hide with me and don’t make a sound,” he continued, a little more rambly, but his voice still quite distant and with no clue as to what was happening. It just seemed easier to follow orders now.

"Sound? Sound, Mister Finley? As if our little ant scuttles could be heard over that racket?"

Ana had followed Finley with an overabundance of patience, but with his frightened murmurs in one ear and Andrew's recommendations of record collection in her other, she was long-suffering no longer. She cuffed her companion lightly behind the head before grabbing his arm tightly between her fingers and yanking.

"The men of your country scream to their overlords for independence, and here you sit like a shivering mouse!" She jammed the words through clenched teeth, more interested in spurring action than actually generating national fervor, practiced as she was at it. "Up! I need assistance."

Giving him one last tug, Ana released him. One eye, she turned to the sky, doing her best to keep to the shadows or behind cover. She scanned the campsite with the other, searching for wherever she'd left that damned camera. It was a beastly thing, black and utilitarian and about the size of a woman's purse. Like many mass produced goods of the damned capitalist Americans, it was completely impersonal and without elegance. But it was supremely useful, and the value of the ability to take ready pictures for later reference and publication could not be overstated.

"My camera! Help me find it," Ana muttered over her shoulder, hoping Finley heard her. "I need to get photographs."

The words barely registered with the botanist, dazed as he was, mind still mostly at the skulls and the thought of impending danger heading towards him. Why had he decided that it was a good idea to go out again? He had no clue, but his hands went out nonetheless, eyes feverishly scanning the floor to look for the camera that Ana had mentioned. It was a camera, right?

Not trusting his senses Finley just dumbly stuck to the border of the camp as he scanned the ground. Again his brain was barely registering anything. At times Finley stumbled and tripped and then he would stand and daze again, only to hear the sound growling above and be reminded again of what he had been told to do.

“Ana, Ana, is this it?” Finley called out as he pulled at yet another box that he had happened to trip over in his search. It was square, it was big, it had a hole, and that was all the redhead really was able to register for the moment as all his intelligence evidently had faded away.

"Ah! Da! Chudesno! That's it!"

Ana hurried forward. Her own search within her tent had been singularly unsuccessful, and though she had found the machine's tripod stand, she had been growing angry in her impatience and growing fear. Indeed, even as she rushed to claim the camera from where Finley had found it among the general supplies, she cast her eyes toward the sky, belying the confidence she'd voiced to her companion earlier. Fingers clasping the black box's handle, she hooked her hand back under the botanist's arm.

"Come! The trees! We must get to them!"

Once more, she dragged him along, only coming to a stop once they reached the shadow of the overhang. Even then, she did not seek better concealment, choosing instead to set up the camera somewhat behind a tree in order to take pictures of the incident.
 
The Game Is Afoot (But Peter Barely Is)
a collab with @Kuno

The position Peter found himself in was terribly unpleasant. Not because of the pain, no - the pain he could understand and weather. Skin bled and bones broke, and Peter could always find a way to bounce back and roll with the punches. But no matter what, Peter was always the caretaker, the protector, the provider. To find himself existing finally in the opposite role of ward was decidedly unnatural. It was like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. He didn’t quite know what to make of it. Quite frankly, it embarrassed him. Deeply.

Much of his assertions of being alright were met with appropriate rebuffing, and soon Peter was left with nothing to do but sit at Lung El’s side, the unwilling patient finally mollified into silence. Then tea came. At the mention of its intended purpose, the rifleman decided to down the hot liquid in one go. His leg stung something fierce, worse than the tea rushing down his throat. He hoped rather anxiously that the effects would kick in sooner rather than later, lest he feared he’d be turning to the bottle next.

Drinking the tea so quickly turned out to be a good stroke of foresight. Trouble came in the form of a distinct whirring noise, causing their party leader’s heads to whip about. Peter’s brows furrowed. He recognized the sound: it was an airship, a mighty beast of flying machinery that he’d been forced on occasion to board on tour. What he did not recognize was its presence in the jungles, or the hurried instructions given to whip the camp about in such a frenzy. He felt the questions shooting through his brain like impulses but...no. He was a soldier first, and time was of the essence.

Compartmentalize. Act first, process later.

With a labored breath, he stood. The campfire was snuffed out quickly enough with a few handfuls of dirt and some stomps with his good leg. As far as the pots and dishware scattered about, Peter scooped up what he could; then again, he only had two arms and hands, and one arm was needed for balance. Or at least, to grab for it. The last item to be snatched up into the crook of his arm shifted his equilibrium too far, and his free hand shot out to catch the nearest shoulder: Andrew’s. He glanced up quickly, blinking.

“Sorry. Lend a shoulder if you can, yeah?”

Andrew himself had been doing much the same, cursing under his breath as he grabbed whatever was handy to sling on a line over his back. The grab to his arm was sudden, but he braced Peter easily, looking up. The Australian gave a sour huff of a laugh.

“And two good legs, alongside. Come on— you hang on to these,” Andrew stated, giving the rifleman a set of pots on a rope. His eyes took upwards. How long before they were here? On top of them?

Whoever they were.

“We need to get to the treeline,” Andrew stated. “And we gotta put as much gas as we can behind it. No idea who that big mother is up there, and I don’t care to find out.”

Airships— military especially— had ballast they could drop, bombs and fire-spray, and if they thought them some form of enemy… Andrew did worry about moving Peter into the forest with the wound so grievous upon his leg, but they had to make this place seem deserted. Already, some of their fellows were obscuring their presence.

The Irishman fell silent besides him. He'd had perhaps a word or two to add to the captain's lines, but something else had stolen the breath from him. Peter slung the added burden of pots across his shoulder, an odd squint to his eyes.

The wound burned. It burned and stung and seared an iron-hot pain, and Peter, for all his gruff, stiff-upper-lip attitude visibly grimaced as he forced himself a step forward.

With Andrew's help as a stabilizing bulwark, Peter hurried alongside him as best he could. All around and behind them, rapid movement ensnared the camp; women and men both hurried to and fro to help hide the once teeming camp. The treeline drew near at what seemed a glacial pace. True, surely it only appeared that way because of the pain clouding his judgment, but as others rushed to find their own hiding spots, and still phantom talons dug in deep into his thigh-

Saints above, why hadn't he taken the damn ether when he'd had the chance?

Sweat lay in pearls along his brow by the time they broke the treeline. Rather thick-headed, Peter remained standing, immediately turning to search the skies for signs of the aircraft.

Andrew led them past the tree line, shifting him higher onto his shoulder as he took him down into a gully. The tangle of roots almost upended them, but Andrew managed to keep the two of them upright as they skidded to a stop under the foliage.

“It seems…. our luck just seems to be dwindling, isn’t it?” Andrew quipped breathlessly, shaded by a massive banana tree. Above, the sound of the airship continued to chop through the air, but it seemed they were hid enough that they could not see it— but that did not mean they wouldn’t see them.

He swallowed, praying fervently that the others had either found cover or made it into the trees. His mind reeled, finally having a moment to sit and think about the events that had just transpired.

“Perhaps… we might be beset in truth by some malevolent spirit,” he joked mirthless.

"That's no laughing matter."

Peter's voice was as breathless as it was stern. Resting momentarily against the bark of the banana tree, the Irishman issued Andrew a warning look.

"You ought not joke about the demons. 'S bad luck and a call for more troubles, so it is. Don't need the Devil taking the whole kit and caboodle."

“So you believe in the Devil? What do you people call him? The queer fella?”

Sweat dropped down Andrew’s face as he stated up, straining his eyes as if that could better find the pursuer above them. He felt like a snake hiding in the grass from the prying eye of a hawk. He swallowed.

“I’m beginning to think it’s too late for all that. He might be here already,” Andrew muttered. He paused again.

“Do you notice anything… strange about Miss Ana? The way she’s been acting? I could swear that…. Ah, maybe not…”

"Just what do you mean by that?" Peter cut in sharply.

The mention of Ana sent a shock of concern through him. After the incident on the ferry, he'd made up his mind to keep an eye on the young lady. True, she'd been quiet as keep as far as troubles were concerned, but he had been distracted of late. Maybe the lack of fanfare from her was the unnatural factor. Had he...had he missed something?

Peter's brows drew together worriedly. "Acting strange how?"

Andrew weighed the answer he was to give. Peter had shown… discretion. Besides that, he was known to be on the prior disastrous expedition with her. Damn it! He didn’t know enough about his own men.

“When I went to the temple yesterday to find Greene and company, she ran out of the temple like a bat outta hell, as if she’d seen somethin’ monstrous. And then today… I’ve no clue, maybe it’s the heat getting to me,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “She seemed… fixated, lookin’ past me, when that rock fell. Like… I don’t know. As if somethin’ caught her attention. Perhaps she had begun to notice it was looking top heavy….”

Peter listened attentively. The concern had yet to leave his eyes, and he looked away, wiping the sweat from his brows.

"Well...Miss Ana's always had an eye for detail. Probably noticed the rocks, like you said," He replied, though the words sounded weak and uncertain to his own ears. He would have liked to believe it was as simple as such. But Andrew was a sensible man; surely if it had drawn his attention, it should warrant proper concern, right?

Or maybe he was just overthinking things as he was often wont to do. Peter glanced back at the captain, grimacing as he did.

"'S alright if I…?" His breath caught in his throat, and the tone changed. "I'm going to sit a short spell."

Andrew nodded, and he looked out at the camp. Most had vacated it, it seemed, and…. where was that blasted airship? Who could be searching with such fervency for them? And why?

“By all means, be my guest. You deserve it. A pint of gin for you, when we get back, from my personal stock. Don’t forget.”

They all needed a stiff drink after this.
 
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Only Mad Dogs an English Men


For endless moments, Bertum tried to make sense of the distant whirring. It was so distinct from anything in the jungle. Impossibly alien. He recognised the sound but couldn’t place it, and that bothered him. It was like a word on the tip of his tongue, the name willing itself to be thought but hiding out of reach of his mind. When the order went out to make for the trees, the doctor was still vacantly staring in the general direction the sound was coming from and it took one of the auxiliaries near flattening him for Bertrum’s minds to process the instruction. It took another couple of seconds to work out what he should do.

The small medical bag that had been carried through the jungle to the temple was placed on an empty table. Two quick trips under canvas resulted in the table being further loaded down with a pile of the doctors journals and the small trunk that he and Abraham had unpacked and inventorized so recently.

“HEY YOU THERE!” Bertrum didn’t actually see the person he called to, he could only hear them off to his side. “Grab the other end of this blasted table would you?”

O’Reilly reacted mechanically. In one split of a second, he switched his planned direction of movement and in the other, he was grabbing the end of a table. “Aye, aye”, the Irish responded briefly to the doctor. “Some foliage will have to do, we ain’t riskin’ the reflection givin’ away our position”, he thought out loud as he lifted the table with a grunt, observing reflective parts of the chaotic ensemble on the top, relatively minimal compared to the amount of paper and cloth, but enough to obviously look like nothing that belongs to the jungle.

“Go, go!” He shouted out and pushed forward into the forest hoping that Bertrum would catch up as quickly, because collecting every individual item off the ground once again and hiding in time did not go hand to hand. “Was a matter of time”, Thomas kept mumbling with a deep frown setting on his face. “That, up there. That is the real feckin’ terror story they should be tellin’.”

The noise from the above grew closer, and the only thing Thomas thought of was how many bullets were there on him. Rhythmic hits of machete against his thigh felt comforting, if only for a bit.

The mad dash into the jungle felt like a stretched out fall. As the pair carried the hastily loaded table of the precariously uneven terrain, Bertrum, already struggling to keep up with Thomas, also tried his best to tilt the table this way and that in an effort to keep the medical supplies off the floor. One or two objects were lost including several bandages that bounced out of one of the medical bags and caught around the doctors arms, trailing him and the table as if it were some sort of incredibly drab bunting.

Once they made the treeline, things were easier by virtue of the fact that they were able to slow down a fraction, but complicated by the more treacherous footing afforded by the tree's gnarled and twisted roots. With care the pair managed to pick their way across to where a few of the others standing, finding flat enough ground that a few stones were all that was needed to make the table stable.

“Thank-you Mr O'Reilly.” Putting both hands on the table, the doctor leaned over it in an attempt to catch his breath. There really was far too much running going on today for his taste.

“Should we risk another trip for the rest of the camp?”

“Sure, doc.” Thomas responded briefly, and it counted both as a reflection to Bertrum’s gratitude and as a response to his question. Too busy with further on masking the treacherously reflective items on the table with more foliage, he spared no gaze in the doctor’s direction, but instead followed up with a smug smirk.

“Though I never took ya for chancer. But I suppose, since yer already here, yer a few shillings short. Just like the rest of us.”

The conclusion was brought up with a cheerful chuckle, although just for a moment while he brushed off the palms of his hands, before he focused back to the matter at hand. “Well. If you insist…”

He took another look at partially hidden supplies as he stepped over the crushed greenery and peeked behind the tree towards the camp that grew more vacant with every second. Bunch of natives still rushed around, now mostly taking care of dishes and the remaining food supply, blabbering on hastily in their own language. Beyond a small man rushing into the forest with his hands full and another pot being kicked forth in front of him, a rushed movement caught his eye.

Regardless of the ever-approaching peril, Alex and Angelica seemed to be having a different idea than simply hiding.

“Now, what are they playin’ at?” The question didn’t stick to his mind for too long once Angelica lifted the acquired machete and sliced through the tent. “Ah. Grand thinking. Absolutely grand,” he thought out loud.

Reaching out for his own blade, he referred back to Bertrum.

“Yer good at fixin’ things, doc. Let’s see if ya can wreck them as well, too. Those tents need to go down. Some of those leaves we’ve cleaned up aside may come in handy. Can’t have ‘em abandoned without some dirt and green.”

“Are you sure?” Straightening up, Bertum looked the Irish man in the eye. “Don’t we risk those buggers up there seeing us?”

With a sudden spark of determination in his eye, the Irish grinned. “Oh you bet. And if they do, who knows what they’ll be doin’ to us. That’s the best part, ain’t it?” Jests had their time and place, and Thomas didn’t need a nudge to realize that may have been just a tad bit out of line, considering all the unfortunate events that occurred already. Even then, he did not fully drop his dumb-looking carefree attitude.

“Bah don’t worry ‘bout those, doc. I got yer back. Worst case, I’ll be leadin’ them away from ya lot. Above these trees, there ain’t no tellin’ if there’s one or a hundred.” The absurdity of the claim wasn’t lost on him, but it was what a good soldier would do, and doing the absurd wouldn’t be the first time.

“Off we go then!” Thomas exclaimed, rushing forward.

The dash back into the camp was easier than the journey into the trees but no less frantic. Reaching the nearest of the tent, the doctor sent about kicking loose the guy ropes on each corner before bodily launching himself at the fabric structure. Something clanged loudly as the support poles landed on the tents content; Bertrum suspected he’d have to make a few apologies after this was all over. That, however, was a matter for later. Pulling himself free of the collapsed, the doctor sprinted towards the next tent, this one his own and started the process once again.

The difference between the tactics of the two pairs was substantial but nevertheless, it got the job done. Thomas did not fail to note doctor’s full-hearted engagement into bringing the tents down, and under the effect of an adrenaline rush, his praise sounded like an order.

“Bang on, doc. Bang on!”

Following the trail of destruction, he reached out for his machete and sliced into the first rope in his way, following up with a kick full of dirt and dead plants until the cloth looked well-used and abandoned. It was easy devoting yourself to it enough to lose the track of all the valuable seconds between them and the noise.

One of the bigger tents towards the middle of the camp was a daring venture, but leaving it behind would beat the purpose just as well. Looking up, he made the decision in a split second, shouting back to Bertrum. “Doc! We seem to be in a bit of ay pickle. You’ve got more or less a second or two to give it yer best, but then I want ya to retreat. Clear?”

“Righto old chap.” The tent Thomas was staring at was no slight thing. Truthfully, the doctor was sceptical that they could take it down at all without giving themselves away; the roar of the airship seemed to be coming from almost directly above them now. At the same time Bertrum could understand that it really needed to come down. “Push two of the corner poles in! I’ll take out the middle support.”

There wasn't any more time to explain. The irish chap seemed to have a good head on his shoulders, hopefully he would understand. Sprinting across the camp, Bertrum ducked through the flaps of the large tent, and blinking in the darkness, stumbled through it until his shoulder smacked firmly into the heavy wooden pole that held the middle of the structure up. Ignoring the pain, the doctor pushed the prop with all the force he could find. At first nothing happened, then in one sudden rush of movement the support slipped on the dirt. Bertrum was launched forwards as he lost his balance and clattered into the closed fabric of the far end of the tent.

The second of the two poles came down under Tom’s persistent kicking and shoving just before the middle collapsed.

“Shite”, he growled, rushing to the other side of the tent with his machete ready. “Get away from the cloth,” he shouted over the noise, and with a hope that the doctor had heard him, stabbed and sliced the fabric reaching out inside to hastily drag the man out. The adrenaline gave him an additional strength to do so, and he saved no effort. Once he felt what seemed to be a limb, he pulled with all his might, dragging the man out with a shout to have him up on his feet and fast, and hopefully having all those remaining on the clearance do the same.

“Go, go, GO!”

Once Betrum was up and running like his life depended on it, which it may have, Thomas frantically grabbed the machete he dropped on the ground and sprinted after him with just as much enthusiasm.[/Justify]
A collaboration with @Ritual Lobotomy
 
  • Nice Execution!
Reactions: Doctor Jax and Kuno
Rational people. She would like to believe she was a rather rational person, but definitely something was afoot and it was not as simple as the aggressors being uncharacteristically cruel to get rid of intruders. She kept those thoughts to herself however as they headed back to camp.

But it seemed that for all their preparations and big talk, two men were already incapacitated on the first day of real business. “Good thing I scavenged.” Alex muttered to herself and approached LungEl, hands already digging through the contents of her bag for some medicinal herbs she had managed to stumble upon. Painkillers and disinfectants the lot of them. “Here, hope you know how to use them.” She offered them to him in Thai. Yet the sound of a blasted airship cut their little banter in half. Alex knew that sound all too well. She had been forced to hide from them before. When the military was looking to root out smugglers like herself.

That’s why when Greene turned to her and Thomas with the urgent command, she had to roll her eyes as she had already sprung to action. “No need to tell me twice!” She commented as she was quickly next to one of the fires, kicking dirt over the coals and undoing their little overhang as to appear tampered by wind, animals and rain. Nothing that would make it seem like the firepit was being used mere seconds ago.

Then she turned her attention to the various tents that they would be unable to hide. Those would have to come loose in places.

Angelica, on the other hand, was far more confused by the sudden hubbub that saw so many of her campmates scrambling. She had been in her tent after being waved away, aware she would merely be underfoot. She poked her head out to look, and her eyes widened as her eyes stole upwards at the noise. It was one she was little familiar with, but it was distinctive.

Frantically she grabbed her bag, and she began to shove into it her many notes, her pens, and most importantly— the tala-patra, the book of palm leaves. At its touch she paused, and for a moment she lost track of time…

… but there was a pressing need to leave!

Finally, she left to see Alex pulling down the lean-to, and she jogged near.

“Miss Smith! What are you doing…?” she asked.

Alex barely looked at the direction of Angelica as she was quite busy making quick work of camouflaging the camp as abandoned. Most of her gear was on her person at all times anyways, so the few things that were left inside their tent could just stay there. If their little ploy worked, they wouldn’t have to worry about foot teams snooping around camp. “Making it look as if we haven’t been here for months. Maybe then we can avoid having to fight foot soldiers of whoever wants your research for themselves.” She replied urgently with a focused expression.
“Go find your uncle or something. But for hell’s sake get out of view from the sky.” Alex ordered as she busied herself with kicking a stool out of the way as if it was knocked over by scavenging creatures and moved to the next visible tent.

Angelica put her hands up in bewilderment and disarmament at the harsh tone Alex gave her, but she nevertheless saw the benefit to her actions. Yes… there was no way to disguise the camp. Better that they make it appear abandoned instead. Quickly, she took up a machete left beside the camp cooking table, and she sliced the lines at the tent beside Alex.

“How much time do we have?” she asked the other woman. “Do we know how close they are?”

She was keeping as close to the treeline as well as she could, but the camp had been deliberately set farther away so as to avoid the miasmas of mosquitoes that thronged in dark, moist places. Her face flushed with exertion as she hacked at the ropes around the tents, trying to make them appear abandoned.

Alex had barely given heed at the woman’s exasperation, she has had similar reactions last night too. Apparently western women considered being naked in front other women just as offensive as if they were men. Or maybe it was her tattoos? Honestly, Alex had not been able to see the issue. All she had done was remove her shirt for crying out loud.

Speaking of loud, a thundering crush made her jump and scowl at the direction of…. The doctor and that navigator mimicking her actions in a more brutish way. She wanted to strangle them for doing so much noise. The place was supposed to look abandoned, but so much noise would tell people otherwise. Then again, if they only had to deal with airship crew, they would never be heard over the roar of the propellers. “We don’t have long. Make for the trees. Now!” Alex ordered Angelica as she continued her hasty work. Looking at the flushed face of the woman, Alex knew that she wouldn’t have trouble catching up with her. Angelica needed the extra seconds of a head start. After a final few destructive interventions, she bolted herself, finding herself running next to Angelica as predicted.
 
More Questions, Fewer Answers
Greene was immediately directing the other men in the camp to hide what they could. The automobile was dismantled, stolen into the jungle in pieces. Danford and another two auxiliaries had already stretchered Taumai into the covering foliage of the surrounding area. Lung El had disappeared into the forests himself. Alex and Angelica, Bertrum and Tom, all setting to making the tents look as disused as possible. The panting American looked up to the sky, searching with feverish eyes. Who was it that happened to be flying here? The Siamese Kingdom was not at war, not right now, so it couldn't be one of their airships, not on patrol anyways. A pleasure liner? They were following the river, though. They'd be out to sea.

Or... commandeered. By a competitor.

Greene cursed under his breath as he tramped through the camp, huffing in the florid verdant heat. It seemed everyone was accounted for, the only ones left being Angelica and Alex. They should be able to run out of the--

What was Henry doing?

The financier only just caught a glimpse of the man inside of Greene's half-collapsed tent, and his eyes once more darted to the sky and the growing whirring noise. It was like a chop of air, a thick and heavy sound as ugly and unwelcome as the buzz of hornets disturbed in an underground nest. He ran for the man, cursing under his breath, as if the devil himself was pricking his heels with his pitchfork.

"What in the name of God are you doing, Henry--?"

"My no'es, Chuck, my no'es," the other explorer huffed, his thin frame surprisingly fast despite his emaciated state. His hands shook, his head bobbing as he scattered papers, searching the field desk inside. "We can' leave wi'ou' 'em--"

A strange compulsion to help him find those self-same notes did assail him -- the mission suddenly at the forefront of his mind, over everything else. But, they were playing with fire. If they were found, they could well be arrested before they could leave, or worse yet -- burnt into the ground, a round of rubble. He was abruptly torn, his higher mind threatened with the animal panic of losing their life's work. To make matters more dire... he had felt this before.

Yes, this was a sense of deja vu. A certain sense of having done this exact same thing, with Henry, but there had been a different end to that, a different --

"We have to go. We can't stay here," Charles stressed, enunciating every word carefully. "Angelica probably has them, Henry, she keeps them all, since you've been gone, do you hear me? Huh? It's fine, they're fine. Come on, we have to go. We're out of time."

Henry looked back to Charlie, and a certain crestfallen character to his face broke his heart. This was everything he had worked for, possibly left to burn, and yet... Forcibly, he took him by the shoulders and began to shove him towards the back of the tent, and Henry obediently allowed the burlier man to lead him out the back. The ground disappeared under their thundering feet, Charles dragging Henry even as he stumbled over the uneven ground. Finally, they were within the treeline, the others in sight-line of them all, nearly.

He began his count. One, two, three, four, five...

The whirring was over their heads now, nearly. Thundering, cacophonous. Blades, churning air.

ten, eleven, twelve...

Finally, its prow appeared over the clearing, flying several thousand feet above the trees. White satin-y body, sleek in design, with Siamese flair.

thirteen, fourteen.... where was fifteen? Who was fifteen? Who were they missing?

"Where's Angie?" Henry warbled next to him, hands clutching his sleeve, his eyes wide with abrupt terror. Greene's gaze wheeled to the campsite.

And a figure, wrapped in canvas cloth. Inside, barely visible, Angelica's white face stared ahead, terrorized into silent stillness, just before the treeline. She hadn't made it. The financier dripped sweat, eyes locked to the young woman, flickering to the airship above. If they saw her... If they so much as saw her move...

He swallowed. In concrete silence, they waited. The ship overhead did not fly the Siamese military flag, nor did it have its emblem, but any familiar with their operations knew the look of their sleek ships, especially those decorated with a slim prow of burnished coppery gold, a swan's neck with a pendulum hanging out of its mouth. Whoever it was, they either hired it out, or the Siamese kingdom was looking for something and didn't want others to immediately identify their craft as royal in nature. The men onboard were themselves Thai as well... save for a single man, standing at a window, a nondescript gentleman with a mustache, wearing a suit and hat, looking out himself.

Don't move girl. Don't move a single muscle. Stay still. Stay absolutely still.

The airship continued its course over their hiding spot. Its thundering engine drove out all other noise - a blessing and curse. The next half-hour passed with bated breath, their eyes on the ship overhead. At last, finally, the sound of its engine dissipated into the distance, the camp descending into a sort of silence, as the fauna returned to their chatter, no longer competing with Man's machines. Hesitantly, Andrew was the first to step out into the clearing, keen eyes scanning the skies. They had been lucky, this time.

Signalling the coast clear, Charles and Henry burst from the treeline for Angelica, the young woman shrugging out of the canvas. Abruptly she was bear-hugged by her father, lifted off her feet.

"I-I'm so terribly sorry, I-- I got my feet tangled in the line, and-and-and there wasn't enough time--" Angelica professed, clinging to her father.

Charles helped to pluck the rest of the canvas off her shaking form, Andrew motioning for the rest of the camp to come out of the woods.

"You're alrigh', Ducky, you're alrigh'..." Henry said, rocking his daughter as Charles surveyed the camp's surroundings. Everything would have to be set up again... that was, if they decided to stay. He worried that even if they had not been spotted, others would soon arrive to this same place. Hard to say.

"Good, quick thinking, Angie, though next time, give me a conniption when we're closer to a hospital," Charles huffed with good-nature. "I'll see about getting a meeting together. We need to discuss some things, going forward."

So much to take in, and all at the same time. Jesus save them. Henry nodded in agreement, brushing Angelica's hair out of her face. With that, Charles walked away, and as he was striding away, he heard briefly, behind him, "I'm gla' you're alrigh' dear, so gla'... Are those... ah, you 'o have my no'es..."


***
Within a matter of an hour or so, the bare necessities of camp were at least put back together. The tents remained in their disarray for the moment, the vote still yet to be decided of what they should do. Notably, Henry had suggested they move inside of the temple, rather than camp outside of it, to keep themselves from being seen yet again. Andrew was firmly opposed, and had made it abundantly clear he wasn't about to be inside 'that death trap'. At the moment, they were getting lunch - dried meat, fruit, and a helping of khao thom, a rice porridge that Lung El had funnily enough hauled into the forest with him under the realization they might want some after this ordeal, if they survived it.

" 'is righ' here... i's fascinading," Henry said, examining the carving Alex had been given while sitting upon a camp chair by the cookfire. "From the natives, you say? 'is would be far above 'heir skill, I'm afraid. As if someone 'aught 'em 'is. 'is motif? Here?"

A single, calloused finger traced a part of the carving, a tree.

"Soma. Central 'o 'eir re'ig-- 'eir faith, apologies," Henry stated.

"A pity so much of it's been burnt," Angelica hummed, looking over her father's shoulder. "I'd love to know what these are."

She pointed to a figure standing by the tree, sprouting leaves itself, hands in the air with worship, a person-tree.

"Perhaps a priest of the cult, dressed in shrubbery as tribute?"

"Perhaps," Henry mused, rubbing his short beard.

"Anything about them bringing around ghosts, these priests?" Andrew asked, grabbing lunch himself. He was to take the votes of each person about whether to stay or move, despite Charles protests that it would be better that they hide in the temple, as spacious as it was.

The question made the financier scoff at Henry's side.

"We're looking for medicine, not tall tales. What happened to that being poppycock, Andy? Did Lung El's ghost story last night spook you?"

"I'm skeptical, not stupid."

I am considering this kind of a free round. Go wild! Do you want to talk with your fellow compatriots about what happened? Maybe get in on this conversation about ghosts or the temple with Angelica and Henry? Or maybe, you want to speak with Andrew about your vote - for or against staying in the temple? Maybe you forgot something in the temple in the rush to get out? Or maybe it's time to have a chat with Greene to suss all this out? Or visit Taumai, see how he's doing? Or-- do nothing! Wax philosophic. Stress out. Get turnt. @Red Thunder @Kuno @Nemopedia @DayDreamer @Applo @Ritual Lobotomy
 
Picture (im)Perfect
a collab between @Kuno and @Red Thunder

Darkness. She needed darkness.

Ana raised the spoon to her mouth slowly, concentrating on the action. It was stupid; this fear was stupid. They'd hidden, hadn't they? Even Angelica had remained concealed within the tent rags! For the circumstances, everything had gone as well as could be expected, and they remained undiscovered. Hell, Ana had even managed to get what she assumed to be some good photographs, and she'd done so with every bit of professionalism she ever knew she had.

But the fear was setting in, the realization of just how close they came to- death, apparently. Food would stay here nerves, and she finally swallowed the mouthful of rice, but she desired darkness. A hiding place. A-

The portable darkroom was still within the wreckage of her tent, protected within its leather casing. How had the photographs turned out? How much detail had she managed to capture? Placing the bowl beside her into the ground, she stood to retrieve the darkroom. The group would be engaged in their vote for the foreseeable future, and she didn't really care where they went. All she knew, all that mattered, were the pictures.

A few pairs of eyes noted the young chronicler’s movements, but only one lingered.

How Peter retained the ability to watch Ana move away was inexplicable. Andrew had made good on his promise of gin once they returned, and Peter - tired, beleaguered man that he was - hadn't paid much heed to abstaining. Yes, the pain had dulled greatly...and so had any other cognitive thought and concerns. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton balls.

Even still, concern laced his features. Ana broke away from the group, and Peter set his own bowl of rice porridge down. Back in the woods, he'd managed to find a thick walking stick of sorts, and with its aid he rose slowly, wincing as he limped after the Russian. Andrew’s words echoed in his head like a somber song.

“Do you notice anything… strange about Miss Ana?"

Peter's brows worried together.

"Ana?"

He got a grunt in reply, the effort of hoisting the fallen tent cloth and its posts in one go something of a challenge for the journalist's small frame.

"Huh?" she replied, breathlessly, turning. The damned humidity, the fright of the airship, the focus on her task, and certainly the struggle of lifting more than she ought, had already left Ana with beads of sweat on her brow. She hardly seemed to notice. By this point, it was honestly more concerning if you did not sweat. And anyway, her general hygiene was not nearly so important as was finding that darkroom.

Identifying her tagalog by sight and greeting him with a smile, she returned to her task. The cloth was moved aside, true; still, no small amount of chaos remained beneath it. To her memory, the leather case had been stored under her cot. She went to clearing the mess with gusto, and no small amount of desire to get the damnable pictures printed.

Peter's returned smile was fleeting. He stepped a bit closer, watching the frenzied, somewhat fuzzy activity of the woman with no fair amount of puzzlement.

"Y'alright there?" He asked.

Not that there was much the man could do to help with...whatever she was doing. With the end of the stick, he gestured loosely at the mess she was pawing through.

"Looking for something?"

"Da, Petrov. Something."

Clothing, books, sacks, and bags, she tossed aside, giving little care or even consideration about their contents. There, finally, was the cot. And there, hiding in its shadow, was the darkroom. The leather case was to all appearances still whole, somehow reasonably pristine despite the long journey it had taken with them. Ana pried it up and slung it across her shoulder, carrying it much like a carpenter might carry a length of wood.

"Come! Let us see what the pictures will show us."

Without further ceremony, she began the short trip back to the small gathering.

To focus on one subject in particular was proving to be somewhat of a challenge. Had Peter not been so encumbered with his weakened leg and, er, muddled thoughts, his reaction may have been spared delayment. He pivoted, following Ana much like a household pet, his demeanor equally as earnest.

“Pictures...I see,” came Peter’s absent-minded reply - even though he had no idea what the woman was referring to. Ana had some object or the other about her person, and hazy eyes went from that to the Russian’s face with fading focus.

“So. Ana. You, ehm…” He rubbed a bit at his chin, a nervous tic. “We’re getting after a bit of time here, and I meant to ask for yesterday how you were getting along, so it were?”

"Oh, you know. I am getting." It was a short hike, and they were quickly drawing near to the crowd again. Bearing not quite directly toward it, Ana slowed to a stop some yards away. She had already been opening the casing, and she crouched down before spreading the constituent parts and chemicals before her.

"Anyway," she said, nonplussed by the attempted shift in subject matter, "Mr. Greene requested I photograph the, er, incursion. I managed to get a few from the trees."

Short stakes, a dark and opaque sheet, a few shallow pans, and several bottles of chemicals were quickly assembled. Where proper darkrooms encompassed the entire project, person and subject matter, this instance necessitated lying down and crawling forward beneath a curtain to maintain the dark integrity of its interior.

"Well, bit of a chancing the arm there, but no fair bit of surprise to me," Peter murmured somewhat incoherently. "You've got the proper skills."

The smile brightening his face hopefully helped to clarify his thickening brogue; he had apparently meant the comment as praise. With nothing to do but stare blearily at her progressing activity, the nucleus for his initial attempt at conversation returned to his mind. He blinked slowly, worry resurfacing in his eyes.

"Ms. Ana, do ya- well, I...heard you're after a bit of a fright yesterday. In the temple, I mean. Haven't really had much time to talk to ya and, ehm…"

The thought skipped away unfinished. Peter cleared his throat.

"You sure you're fine?"

From the shoulders on up, Ana had disappeared. The black curtain of the darkroom obscured her, where she had disappeared with her camera after giving Peter a non-committal shrug. Stoppers popped, mechanical releases clicked, and for a few moments, only the sound of activity came from within. Indeed, the quiet ambience of the nearby group conversing about their next step created the greatest auditory distraction. A breeze picked up; soft and sticky, it nevertheless was a welcome change to the country's humidity, carrying as it did some of the cool sea air in its wake.

"None of us are fine, Petrov." Her voice was muffled, the dark cloth thick to keep out the external light. Yet the strain in her tone was obvious, like a tea kettle finally whistling from the pressure within. "This is already more than we agreed. Last year was- [l]obydennyy[/I], normal, compared to this time. We said yes to an expedition to find a plant, yes? Why, then, are we looking into ruins? Why, then, is a Siamese airship scouting above us?"

Ana fell quiet, and the gentle patter of activity replaced her concern.

"Ah! But you were injured!" Her arms remaining within the room, she poked her head out to cast a look of worry first to Peter's leg and then to his eyes. "You seem to be getting on okay."

"Yeah I suppose I am...getting on okay, like ya said…" Peter chuckled. "Thanks to Lung El’s tea and, ehm, Bertrum's...Andrew’s stock."

The awkward, unfocused pauses. The overtly nonchalant tone of voice. The relaxed stance that Peter took in the presence of a woman that was no kin of his own. Gin had degraded the man's own tenets of propriety. With a grunt, he came to sit beside Ana and her contraption, the distance between them suitable enough for another man but...certainly closer than Peter would have ordinarily allowed.

His head swiveled to face her, heavy on his neck.

"Ya know, Ana, I was oft- I often wondered how you were getting along and such after...with Roland. No man or woman ought to see such a thing." The Irishman's hands kneaded together, and he broke eye contact to stare blearily at the ground. He nodded once, twice. "I'm grateful to see you're alright. Doing well and such. Stout of mind - God could not have afforded a better thing."

A blank look, a small snort, and Ana was back inside the darkroom. The sound of dripping, sloshing liquid emanated from within, followed by the wah wah wah of waving paper. It took some time. Photography was a tedious, time consuming activity, relying on the slow process of chemical reactions to bring the oft times blurry negatives to obscured life. And that was assuming the negative wasn't ruined in the process; an all too common result of photograph development.

"God."

The muttered word was filled with vitriol and venom, obvious even through the dark cloth. A few moments later, and Ana withdrew from the darkroom fully. The fingertips of her hands were strained, and she brushed them off on her skirt.

"Petr- Peter," she corrected, casting a slightly disparaging look at him. "You are too drunk to hear, maybe. We are not okay. I am not okay. God, your God, has not given me a stout mind; I've developed that myself. Apart from my country falling to ruin. Apart from my- my father's death while I was visiting in the god-damned jungle.

"I am not 'okay'. No one here is. The only hope I cling to is that I can find answers." She gestured to the darkroom. "That these pictures will give me answers."

She held Peter in a wordless, momentary stare.

"What do you hold to, Peter?"

It was the only thing to cut through the fog.

Neither profane talk nor biting tone stirred more than a blink from the devoutly Catholic man. He had heard worse from the heathenous dregs of mercenaries, and in his subdued state, he could only manage a slight grunt and the uncomfortable curl of his heart. No, it was not that which filled his face with a sudden and sobering clarity.

He stood at the precipice of a danger only he could fully explain. It was a gate as of yet unopened, and with his inhibition impaired, he felt the words spill unbidden from his mouth in one big rush of air.

“Me wife needs me. She needs me so.” There was a horrid pause in his voice, a short, desperate inhale of air. “Deathly ill, so she is, and Lord I didn’t want to leave her side, but He knows I needed the money. Lord knows I…I’ve got to take care of Delia.”

I feel poorly, acushla.

His hands gestured helplessly in the air.

Ana grew quiet, her features softening from the iron look she had given him moments prior. She shifted, no longer kneeling, to sitting with her legs beside her, knees bent.

"Bog dayet, a Bog beret.," she muttered. God gives, and God takes away. Life was unforgiving, and then you died. Alone. Like her father did. Like Peter's wife certainly would. Her thoughts strayed briefly to the source of her welcome distraction, the photographs, but they were still developing; it would be some time before the process was finished. In her forced patience, her dissatisfaction with- with everything had come flooding back, and all the moreso in light of her friend's inebriated confession.

"I am sorry, Peter."

Maybe Greene's fabled plant could save her, she wanted to say. Maybe, if they were lucky, he could return with it in time. But she was not in the business of false hopes. Reality was cold and harsh, and setting expectations against likelihoods was cruel. All she could really offer, therefore, was pure and honest sympathy.

"I am sorry."

"No, no, no…Don't."

The muffled protest shot forth from his mouth like bullets. Peter's position was nearly infantile: hunched forward, curled neatly against himself, his fingers kneading at the bridge of his nose in anxious repetition. He repeated his affirmations in the same agitated manner, and he shook his head against his hands.

"Don't apologize, Ana, please. Don't. Please."

Something was twinging in the back of his subconscious like a brute banging on the front door. Though Peter had downed a fairly good portion of the gin bottle on his own, the stout Irishman was not yet past the edge of drunken oblivion. There was a pullback evident in the slightest catch of his final words, the sudden, fleeting sharpness of his green eyes. Sobriety lingered in his dismayed state: he was disturbed, utterly and completely, by his friend's chosen words to mollify his sorrow. The semantics told of an unspoken hand in his troubles, and he was resolutely against any such admissions from the Russian chronicler.

Of course, it was quite possible the woman hadn't realized the subtle wordplay. But Peter never considered such a thing.

Besides - his emotions could only be staved off for so long, and as his tongue had been loosened, so too his mouth opened once more.

"I'm sorry too. I'm sorry yer back in this god-forsaken land with the rotten lot of us when ya ought to be home, happy, with your father - God bless him - not feckin' miserable with the lot of us. I'm sorry I ever let him get in me feckin' head and get me wound up thinking I'd be happy with a wife and child and home of me own whilst knowing the good Lord's truth that I'm a good for nuthin bastard's boy wanting for nuthin but trouble. I'm sorry. I'm sorry...for the both of us."

She shook her head.

"Nyet. If I am not allowed, then you are, neither.

"Besides, the effort counts for something," Ana continued, leaving off the following but bad soil still yields no crops.

The photographs. She spared the darkroom a look. The effort she'd taken to procure them. The risk. Yet, they might have been badly focused. Perhaps the film was poor quality, and the negative was badly blurred. Perhaps her own fields would prove barren, her efforts in vain. Naught was to be done but wait.

Peter, though. The man was a shell of his usual, stoic self, his strength drained by injury, alcohol, and impending tragedy. His was a longer, harder row to hoe. The pictures still needed time to develop; they would not be ready before she returned. Muttering something about checking their progress, Ana ducked her head back within the red darkness. A tiny lantern inside illuminated the workplace in muted fashion, casting tinted light. Indeed, the photographs needed more time.

A whim, or perhaps inspiration, struck her. Carefully, so as to not disturb the set up, she removed the chain about her neck. The Khuman Tong followed; it seemed to her to shine with hellfire in the red lantern. Almost, she returned it within her blouse. But she did not. Instead, she held it close to her lips and whispered.

"Eti kartinki ochen' vazhny. Pozhaluysta, zashchitite ikh."

These pictures are very important. Please protect them.

Setting it gently beside the row of hanging photographs with almost ritualistic care, Ana extracted herself and inspected her friend. Still there. Still a crumbling mess. Dusting off her knees, she stood.

"Come," she said, leaving no room for argument as she crouched down to lift him by his shoulder, taking care to grab his bad side. "This day finds you in dour mood. You need sleep; it is the best healer."

Ana's charge complied with obedience due a child. With her aid, the rifleman rose. He hardly noticed the dull throb of pain shooting down his leg. Something else had the man’s brows knitting together in their characteristic state of reflection, and he stood still, stalwart in his position.

"Wait."

His eyes flitted about unfocused, hazy.

His mission had in its inception held a dual purpose. Perhaps a less beleaguered Peter would have thought his following actions unthinkable, but as discerned so easily by Ana, the man was worn down from all fronts. With sleep came rest, clarity, and inevitably, regret, and he knew his next action would be the furthest thing from his mind.

Conservative thoughts no longer barred him. Only the worries of a friend remained.

The simple act brought him back a year before. With a pinched look, Peter took Ana's hands and pressed his trusty pistol into her palms. Cold metal met the warmth of flesh; retracting his hands away, he nodded, apparently agreeing with some thought within his own head.

"Ana, I can't be getting after you in a pinch like I'd like to...not anymore, not with, well- my leg like this, so I...well, ehm. Here."

Ana took it without argument, turned it about in her hand to hold the pistol barrel, and thumped Peter on the head with the wooden grip. It was not a heavy hit; feeling the weight in her hands, she had pulled her punch. But it was certainly meant to be felt.

"Lenivyy idiotskiy trus," she rebuked, pressing the weapon back into Peter's hands. The unsettling fear she felt at even holding the thing again, she tried to cover with indignation and bravado; the sudden cold sweat on her brow indicated her true emotion. Her willingness to learn the previous year had been smothered in Roland's violent death.

"If your leg will constrain you, then I will cut it off myself. Otherwise, you improve, leg and demeanor both." There was a moment, heavy with the tension of fear and concern and trepidation. The empathy Ana displayed before was still in the background but now overshadowed. "Now speak no more of this, Petrov."

“Well.”

The rebuke - both verbal and physical - had landed soundly on the rifleman. A bit dumbfounded by the unexpected response, Peter stood there blinking slowly, much like a child who had been met with a fierce tongue lashing. In truth, he had...and just as meekly, he returned the pistol to its holster as gin and exhaustion helped evaporate the rest of whatever plan he’d undertaken regarding it.

Without another word, Peter retrieved his walking stick from the ground. A bundle of grumbled, heavily accented words tumbled from his lips, sounding loosely like thank ye kindly, and the man set off, his leg throbbing dully with every step, helped along by the sturdy arm of his Russian friend.

And true to Ana’s command, not another word regarding the gun crossed his lips.

For her part, Ana gave the darkroom tent one last look. It should be fine, right? The Khuman Tong should be fine.

Right?
 
They were going to get in the trees just in the nick of time. Alex had been easy to catch up to Angelica and then overrun her...... The damn woman had tripped. A choice of juicy swears escaped her throat as she came to a screeching halt under the trees, looking back at Angelica and locking eyes with her. She didn't want to risk yelling at her to stay still in case she was heard by the people on the airship. The goddamn airship! Alex didn't need to see colors to know this was from the military. She had had to hide from similar ships enough to know that particular prow style with her eyes closed. This was getting out of hand. Perhaps it was not worth the money. Perhaps she should just jump ship before it was too late. She could make that money in due time if she was patient enough. Yet her patience was running thin and before she could make up her mind, the airship had moved on. Seemingly convinced about their camp being long since abandoned. Angelica had also pulled through and that was something Alex had not expected from her.

"There's hope for you yet." Alex had said, patting her on the shoulder in passing as she made her way to their fallen tent to retrieve her sack with the rest of her belongings. It would be best if she kept it near from now on, in case a tactical retreat was necessary.
----------

Once a rudimentary camp was reset, Alex had delivered the goods to the two scholars of the group and had made her way to get some food. She thanked Lung El for having the godsend foresight to save the delicious khao thom and settled down to eat nearby the father-daughter pair that was acting like overexcited children playing with their new toys. She was not caring much about talking, so she had simply confirmed what was asked of her and otherwise stayed silent, enjoying her meal and planning her next steps.

"Stories that persist like that, usually have some truth behind them. And you are chasing after legends yourself." Alex spoke up in defense of Andrew. "This soma, you think is a plant. But no plant can cure everything and that was a military airship if there ever was one. It was not flying the royal colors so, if whoever is after the same thing was able to commandeer one, then we are in for a hell of a ride." She added frowning. "We better get a move on and leave this site. We can't stay here cause we run the risk of being spotted by ground teams."