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

[Kuno]

PETER O'KEEFE || RIFLEMAN
Location: Campsite
​

The jungle heat persisted even in the murky depths of the ancient temple. It clung with the dark to wall and body alike, and Peter could feel the sweat beading on his skin, prickling at the senses like insects all over his body. Given his surroundings, he...tried not to think of it that way. Instead he set himself to the work ahead. There were still many a choking vine to clear, and - although he had made his dislike of their assignment quite clear - the rifleman found wisdom in Thomas' words. Securing the entrances was the best way to provide a safety net for their party. And who knows how many things resided within? Better he found them now and not later in the dead of night in a poor sod's sleeping sack.

But queer occurences were of a mind to interject themselves into idle moments. For a moment, Peter did not know what exactly made him stop. A sixth sense, perhaps. His hand paused mid-cut on his knife, and his head turned minutely towards the unexplored gloom, his brows quizzical. He thought...he'd thought he heard...

Were his ears playing tricks on him?

Peter shook his head lightly, and he returned his eyes to his work, raising his blade to cut once more. Except the cut never came. This time he rose bodily, his head cocked towards the intrusion of noise to his left. For it was a noise; distinctive even amongst the scrape of the men's work and the fleeting whispers of bat wings flapping in the dark. Persistently sinister: it was the sound of shifting scales on the temple floor. There was a snake slithering towards them from the shadows, and Peter waited for the noise to level out as the serpent made itself known, and he would cast it back into the dark.

Except...it never did. Instead, it was getting louder. And louder. And louder. Louder than any serpent had a right to be.

And now it came from above.

"Stop."

It was the first word between the men in nearly fifteen minutes. It broke the silence with a brusque touch, seeming to pervade through the suffocating mass of black enveloping them. Peter had backed up to the navigator without realizing it. Quiet alarm shuttered throughout his body. His eyes clawed through the blackened maw above, and abruptly, he raised his lantern high above in a forceful attempt to unmask the unknown.

It did, if only momentarily.

The image that presented itself was brief, but concrete. What he'd heard at last married with what he finally saw: a snake. No - not just a snake. A massive behemoth of a snake on the ceiling, larger than any snake he'd ever seen. The light reflected and glimmered off the iridescent scales. Then the vision was gone as there was a quick flash of movement, the serpentine monstrosity pushing forward -

Clang!

He didn't bother to try and come to grips with the authenticity of the nightmarish sight before him. Hesitation had seen greater soldiers than him killed.

As his lantern was sent careening to the floor, Peter tore his rifle from its straps across his back. The adrenaline rushed through him, and he hardly recognized himself as a single command roared from his throat in tandem with the raise of his rifle.

"Light!"

@Ritual Lobotomy

 

[Red Thunder]

Tatyana Volkov
We're All A Little Mad Here​

Tatyana didn't answer Bertrum immediately. For one thing, the soup was very good. The chilis was perhaps not expressly to her liking; she kept having to retreat to the beer to lessen the prickling on her tongue. But the shrimp, ah. Whomever had prepared it (Lung El, she guessed) was exceedingly knowledgeable in balancing the otherwise overwhelming taste of the prawn with the tangy lime and bracing lemongrass. She chewed silently, trying to appreciate the soup. Trying to enjoy the small comfort of care and concern in this hostile place from those around her. Trying to enjoy what little moment she could gather.

She was also biding her time. The Thing had looked so real; she guessed, should she glanced again, it still would. Heat left her body, a cold finger of fear feeling its way up her spine. The privacy of the tent offered no concealment; the stone of the temple, no cover. It- the- IT hadn't just looked at the camera, and its picture didn't just look forward. It had seen her; it still looked for her! It-

"A starving figure, Doctor. It was- istoshchennyy. Damn." Ana wrinkled her forehead, her lips pursing as her head dipped forward. "It had- had not eaten in a long time. The ship- it… I don't know. It examined it, like a child with a new toy?

"It was very big, yes? It stood on our ground, but it reached- the airship was within-"

She fell silent. Why was she telling them this? A muscle twitches on her temple as she shot a glance at the people attending to her. Her admission would only solidify the impression she surely exuded of delusion and mania. The bowl, once warm, felt chill in her hands, and the smell of the Thom Yum it held stirred discomfort in her belly.

"It- it looked at me, Doctor. I did not even see until I had developed the photographs. I was hidden; we all were. But-"

Her belly, turning at the odor of the food she held, churned the harder. She was the only one to see It. Even Andrew, who Ana had shown right away, saw nothing whatsoever. So, too, had he-

She cursed under her breath. Why had she gone to Andrew? He had not heard the chanting, nor had he seen the child on the debris, the one that was- warning? causing? the rockslide.

"I- this was not the first time I- that something was shown to me." Why was she telling them this. Her body felt limp, weak, and her dislike for the smell of the soup began to turn to revulsion. "The rockslide that hurt Petrov and the others. I only knew to call a warning because a- this small child- I saw him- her- atop the pile. Yelling at me and pointing."

Ana's freehand covered her eyes. Madness. She didn't want to hear that diagnosis. But, with her own confession, what other could here be?
@Applo @Doctor Jax

 

[Doctor Jax]

Light, when it was brought about, did nothing to elucidate what it was that Peter had seen. No - even with the searching beam, that brief glimpse was all that they had seen, of iridescent scales, a snake as thick around as a man at his shoulders. Yet, the beams of light only illuminated the high ceiling, the friezes of flowers, of vegetative motifs, as sprawling as the vines themselves. There was, however, something else to the ceiling, a smoothness in certain sections, as if years of wearing water had polished it to a fine sheen. The floor, likewise, had the same uneven roughage, of stone worn away in certain, long, flowing tracks only evident now that they had torn up the vines.

In the dark, at the end of the hall, something quietly spoke. An undoubtedly human voice, honey-sweet, soft. The voice seemed to inspire curiosity - a rabid, burning desire to hear further, like a whisper just at the edge of hearing. It was that frustration of hearing a song you think you know just on the cusp of the ear, but just faint enough to make you doubt it. So far and so deep, lightly reverberated by the walls of stone.

Perhaps, most worryingly, the language it spoke was their native gaeilge. And in the gloom, that little they could make out...

"Is mór an trua é. Cuireann siad siúd a fhaigheann bás isteach orm arís."

Whatever was in that darkness, it hid far too well. There was not a scale anywhere to find of it, not a flicker of the tail, not a shine of the eye. Somewhere in that ink, it waited.

@Ritual Lobotomy @Kuno

***

Lung El stood silent through all of Ana's description of the terror she had experienced. His mind began to reel, heavily, heavily. Her descriptions rattled him as he imagined the shadowed entrance of the temple out the door. The light that came in was wan, seeming timid in its attempt to invade the interior of the temple's confines. Rain clouds were forming, no doubt, for the afternoon shower. And out there... something else lurked.

And the khuman tong. The boy must be fed well enough. Why else would he warn her? Or was it a warning - was it instead an omen? It was difficult to tell with pi.

But he knew one thing for sure. What Ana had experienced, what she had seen - it was not just the pricks of an unstable and self-destructive mind. This Western doctor may object, but... Well, the soul was as important an organ as the heart, the stomach, the eyes. It needed soothed, as a fever does, as a rash does.

"Nong-Ana, what you say...this is pi. Ghost."

He journeyed back, deeper into the tent.

"They are pret. Tall, starving ghost. Big, as a house - bigger. They are ghost of people who hit their parents, very greedy when they are alive, steal to have more. To see one..."

He had only ever heard of monks being able to see the spirit world, those who are spiritually adept. Yet, no doubt, Ana was not one of them, given her penchant for drink, her abrasive personality. Nevertheless, she was gifted with that sight.

"But no idea why it is here. They like things - want more things. Always hungry, for food, for shining things, sometimes--"

He stopped. He did not know if he should continue that line of thought. There were other things a pret would want, that made it dangerous to humans even when invisible. The thought of an invisible, giant hand grasping hold of a man to try and drink his very blood... Ah, but it would have done so already, would it not have? They had been here days.

He did not complete his sentence, in deep thought.

@Red Thunder @Applo

 

[Ritual Lobotomy]

INTO THE DARKNESS

Thomas O'Reilly Collab post w/ @Kuno - Peter O'Keefe

A cacophony of rustles, grunts, and metal scratching against the ancient stone filled in the silence. Thomas found it to be no weirder than small talk. A truthful silence made him feel more comfortable than a forced insincerity of pointless, atmosphere-filling discussions. He had also found that keeping your mouth shut helped to focus on the task at hand. He kept swinging the machete downwards without much hesitation. If a snake appeared, it would die. Surprisingly enough, the denser the roots became, the less rustling could be heard. From a line of displeased hisses, it came down to only a few, then only every once in a while. Seeing how they stood no chance against the blade made Thomas assume they escaped with their lives further into the temple, but that was all the thought he had of it. That is until the established working tempo changed.

The first time Peter stopped and fell behind did not merit a reaction any more significant than a short side glance his way. Understanding his current condition, Thomas left him to handle it in silence. He had to admit; the man was one of the more stubborn characters he crossed paths with. But even the most stubborn had their limits, and it began to seem that Peter reached his. Except, instead of pain and discomfort, a clear direction called out to Thomas. Stop.

Halting his strike, Thomas rose up with a sigh. "Listen, if yer banjaxed, I don't mind workin' alone... What are ya doin' lad?" To his surprise, the man seemed fine but alert. Alert enough to back up from the center of the room back towards him. Taking him for a reasonable man, Tom gave him the benefit of the doubt, squinting towards whatever Peter was staring at. Instinctively, his fist clenched around the blade, prepared to strike even before he indeed saw anything of concern. In silence, Thomas heard a loud rustle like that of a typical snake but certainly enhanced by the echo in the room. He only became invested when Peter jerked, launching his lantern upwards. Involuntarily, his eyes followed, catching only a glimpse of smooth and black against the stone before his comrade dropped the lantern in panic, reaching for his rifle and demanding light.

"Oi! Ey!" Thomas shouted out in protest as he hastily reached downwards to grab the lantern. As soon as he rose back up, he reached forward, flipping the rifle's safety switch with a growl. "The fuck do ya think yer doin'?!" The same lantern went upwards again, revealing a row of ornate stones on the ceiling and no crawlers to be seen. "It was a feckin' snake, and now it's gone, buck!" With the initial surge of adrenaline leaving him, Tom paused to assess the situation. Exhaling aggressively, he grabbed the rifle's barrel and redirected it downwards, lowering his tone. "Ya shoot that stone, and yer gonna be havin' that bullet back before ya say 'gobshite'." He was confident Peter was aware. But fear made brilliant gents do the stupidest of things, and Thomas was not amused.

Neither was Peter.

The look that seized on Thomas immediately after the emboldened grab of his rifle was equal parts incredulity and sudden, molten rage. Peter clenched his jaw tight.

A prayer for strength might have helped him, but he was sure God would not bless the abrupt explosion of curse-filled thoughts swarming his mind. Slowly, the rifleman pulled his gun from Thomas's grasp, his hands slightly shaking.

He didn't even know what to say to the navigator.

Following the trace that the creatures had left, Thomas passed forward. Undeniably, it was hard to imagine a snake that could have defied gravity, but stranger things were found in more mundane places. Perhaps it was a different animal altogether. Another look at several meandering tracks was, however, enough to worry the navigator. There were more than he had hoped they could remove. Pausing briefly, he made his way back towards Peter.

"We're done here," he announced on his way back, and he received a dark look in return. "We need to find ay decent barrier to keep these feckers out tonight."

"Tom, you…"

Thomas proceeded towards the man, but his step slowed down. He was well aware he had struck a nerve, and Peter's reaction was justifiable. The rifleman's voice was abnormally quiet. Peter ran a tongue over his teeth, clearly fighting the storm within. He tried again.

"I'm no simpleton with a gun. I aimed at a threat...because that's the line of employment for me. To protect you lot from threats," Peter continued in that strangely soft voice of his. Slow and careful, as if speaking to a child. Somehow it was more disturbing than if he had yelled. "So do me a favor, sir."

He raised a finger and jabbed it once in Tom's direction. At that point, Tom stopped but barely flinched. If the comrade wanted to brawl, that was quite alright, although there were priorities at hand.

"Don't. Ever. Feckin' interfere with me aim like that again, lessen' I'm pointing the bloody thing in your feckin' eye."

A pause filled with an occasional rustle. Peter stood there with his barely contained rage, and Tom was on the other side of the proverbial barrel, letting the dust settle.

"Ya done with yer crazy?" Thomas finally asked. "What? Yer gonna land me ay few, big man?" He followed just as calmly, briefly spreading out his arms. It wasn't a challenge nor a provocation, but a genuine question. If anything, he admired man's spirit regardless of the sustained injury. However, he too did stubbornly stood behind his action and instead of backing off, the navigator made a few steps forward until he was within Peter's range, responding with an intense stare of his own.

"Ya saw ay critter," he emulated the tone Peter referred to him with. "Ya handle critters with ay blade. Not ay bullet." The method itself would not have been remotely an issue if at that moment Thomas had any faith in Peter's state of mind. And just for his own mental note, he had wondered whether Greene was in his right mind himself with his choice of employees. First, Volkov and her breakdown. Then, Henry's excellent mood - unusual for a man that seemed to have returned from the dead. Not to mention Andrew's obvious disagreement with their decision to move the camp after a few ghost stories…

Quite frankly, he had hoped that the rifleman would not be following the suit.

"All o' this. It's messin' with yer head," Thomas provided a simple explanation, tapping his own temple. "We're goin' back," he repeated, passing Peter on his way. "And don't ya worry yer head. I'll be more than happy to let you shoot yer bullets. Just not with me head around to greet 'em," he chuckled briefly as a peace offering. "It's a hard noggin, but not that hard."

Tom's good mood, however, was shut down right after, by an uncomfortable sensation creeping up his back. A mind-bending feeling of solitary confinement had one positive side-effect in the sea of those that you would rather live without; you were almost supernaturally aware of the fact that you were no longer alone. Once again, a grip on his machete tightened as he turned towards the pitch-black wall. Waiting.

A voice. No doubt about it. A human voice that came from somewhere down the pitch black. Snakes were manageable with a simple barrier, but a human presence needed to be handled immediately.

"Who's there?" Tom's voice boomed authoritatively. The presence responded in an unexpected manner, which meant to feel so close, but all it did was unnerve the Irish more.

"Is mór an trua é. Cuireann siad siúd a fhaigheann bás isteach orm arís."

For a moment, confusion flew over Tom's face and he exchanged a brief glance with Peter as he registered the language he hadn't adequately heard in what seemed to be years. Wonders of existing under the English boot. Nevertheless, it was clear and fluent - perhaps the most disturbing fact of them all. If only for a moment, before it had occurred to him.

"A'right, boyo. A'right," he muttered, lowering the blade. "Yer ghost stories are a gas, but not in here." Thomas proceeded to speak to the darkness, pushing out a forced chuckle to unsuccessfully conceal his annoyance for being the butt of a joke. "Ya see a couple of white, painfully Irish lads, you learn a few words, and ya take us for tools. A'right. Come on out now, so I do not have to come in and ya will really be bothered then. Ya have ten seconds," he ordered, holding the lantern in front of him.

Peter's own lantern followed suit, though he stayed rooted to the spot.

The translation was delayed in Peter's mind, perhaps explaining the delay of his own movement. The Irish words twisted and turned into English, then back to Irish, again and again, the words resonating in his mind.

"It's a pity. Those who die come again."

From the shadows they spoke. The dead beckoned.

"Well go on, then."

There was an uncharacteristic coldness in Peter's stone face as he glanced aside at Thomas. He had erroneously thought the two men had had a thing or two in common, with common sense being the key proponent. But listening to the man's quick and delusional explanations for the work of the supernatural was...it bordered on denial. It was denial.

Tom was a fool, like the rest of Greene's party. And Peter had had enough of being discredited.

"Go on then," Peter repeated, jerking his thumb towards the malevolent darkness. "No chancing the arm with it - root the devils out, yeah?"

It did not take long for the navigator to understand the sarcasm and mockery in Peter's voice. Throwing another piercing glance towards the rifleman, Thomas focused back to where the voice originally came from, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Ya know, I am way too sober for yer shit," he responded with evident mental exhaustion, stepping forward.

The man was not a stranger to fear, but in any case, he was more likely to fight than flight. Quite suddenly, he came to realize that the provocation may have come from a malicious intent the same way it could have come from a jest. Still, that thought did little to add any insecurity in his step, although his intention towards the voice was more aggressive than before. Closing in on it, he stopped and weighed out his options. He was going in blind, and whoever waited in the darkness could have been armed.

"Well then," he spoke up again, swinging the lantern. "Gave ya a fair warnin'." Grabbing the lantern firmly, the navigator assessed the trajectory and rolled it much like a bowling ball, launching it as far as he could towards the source. Hovering over the floor for a first meter or two, the lantern touched down onto the stone, bounced back up, then dropped down and rolled further in a decent distance.

Until it stopped.

 

[Applo]

It is not always necessary for one's lips to move for one to speak. The doctor was a case in point of this as the auxiliary launched into descriptions of ghosts and spirits. Berturm's eyebrows exclaimed his scepticism and amusement at the tall tales as clearly as if he had been gauche enough to interrupt the local to express himself audibly. As it was, the doctor waited until Lung El had clearly finished speaking before giving a polite little cough.

"Yes, thank-you Mr El. That really was most illuminating, thank-you. And thank-you for the soup and beer for Miss Volkov. However, I really must insist now on a moment of privacy for me and my patient, my good man. I am sure you understand."

Leaning back in his seat, the doctor drew steepled hands to his lips as he waited for the Auxiliary to go. It was only once the makeshift surgery was empty of all but those who had a right to be there did the Doctor speak again.

"Ana, now I must admit that maladies of the mind are not my specialty at all. I have read a little of the writings of a rather interesting Austrian fellow who has some interesting ideas, but only a little. That being said, every new thing you tell me gives me more cause for concern.

Standing up now, Bertrum began to pace back and forth as he examined his thoughts so closely, that metaphorically, he was taking some of them outside to have a better look at them in the light.

"Madness is not a word I would like to use. For now perhaps, we shall say you have a touch of hysteria; really quite understandable everything considered. I suspect all of us in this camp are a little out of sorts with events and all. I myself lept on a tent like a madman earlier, which I can assure you is quite out of character. I think were we anywhere else I would demand that you take your leave of us for a week or two to recuperate somewhere less demanding. That isn't really an option for us now though is it.

Ceasing his pacing in front of Ana, Berturm crouched down so that his face was level with that of the Russian.

"As it is, I think it best if we keep a close eye on things so I will ask that every evening you meet with myself, or if you prefer Dr Danford, just to have a little chat. Nothing too serious, just so that we can keep an eye on how you are doing. I would also perhaps suggest avoiding developing your photographs for a while. The mind is a susceptible thing and there has been far too much talk of ghosts and spirits around the campfire lately as well as Mr El's little outburst just then. It is only natural when stressed that you might start to see those fictions in a developing photo. You are close with Mr O'Keith are you not? Might he be able to do that for you for a few days at least?"

Cramp won it's brief battle in Bertrum's leg and with a grunt he stood back up, leaning heavily on his cane as he made his way back to his original seat.

"Finally, I am going to ask you to stay off the drink except for strictly medicinal purposes. A little will help calm your nerves, but no more. If that doesn't work then, we can discuss a little laudanum perhaps."​

 

[Doctor Jax]

@Kuno @Ritual Lobotomy​

The lantern turned end over end, clanking and clanging as it skittered across the worn stones, in waving patterns as if washed away by water, and it seemed to go on a long, long time... until finally, at last, it came to a halt. The light illuminated nothing around it, just a circle of stone floor in squares of floral patterns. The inky dark around the lantern seemed thick as dark molasses, and in that darkness, nothing moved.

Until something did.

Light shone off it in almost metallic sheen. A body - sinuous, long, with scales iridescent. Only in such a brief glimpse, but definitely there.

"An bhfuil an oiread sin eagla ort? Leath-chroí, an solas seo."

The voice did not so much speak as worm between the ears. It came from within, not without, close as a skull, close as a thought.

"Ag smaoineamh i gcónaí. Nosier ná mar ba chóir duit a bheith. Tabharfaidh mé na freagraí atá uait."

The soft hush of scales to stone tickled the ear, and the sinuous body came closer to the light with shocking speed. And in that light was a massive snake -- or what appeared to be one. Indeed, it was like no terrestrial serpent, being well in excess of a man's height reared back, its body somewhere lost in the dark, unfathomable in size. Its face seemed composed of golden, metal tongues of flame overlaying each other in Siamese style, fiery in the lantern light, with ivory teeth as long as a man's hand. It bent its head and picked up the lantern in its teeth, the light now clearly illuminating its head - almost fifteen feet above the ground.

"B'fhéidir má fhéachann tú orm i bhfianaise níos fearr ..."

Behind the two men, the dark loomed, the entrance to the long hall far behind in complete darkness. Indeed - was there an entrance, back there? Was there anything else besides the pool of light ahead of them, the monster in the flesh before them, and they two in this godforsaken hall?

***​

This was a strange and uncomfortable situation, one in which Andrew had little guidance how to navigate. The Australian sat in a chair amidst the columns about them, the tents set up in two rows about him. Their canvas outsides were thrown into relief, golden and quiet. The men were quietly entertaining themselves, with cards, with chatter, with preparing guns and other broken implements from their mad dash into the rainforest.

He chewed the end of a pipe, thinking. Charles had made it clear they were to continue this expedition, Siamese government and ghosts be damned. Henry was likewise invested, his daughter ready to go where he willed. Three grand in US greenbacks was a quite the chunk of change, but the longer this went, the more it seemed they were not looking for some rumored medicinal wonder.

Around him were the ruins of a civilization rumored to be able to bring back the dead, abruptly disappearing as if into thin air. Without a trace, they were gone, and their very presence caused those who had lived here to shrink back in terror.

He needed to know more. And it seemed there was only one other person who had that knowledge.

Andrew levered out of his chair, walking to the tent closest to the Mummy Room, at the end of the row. The darkness swallowed whole all other form past it, a final bastion against its encroachment. He hesitated, before stating, "Mister Warren, y' mind if I come in?"

There was a shuffle inside of the tent, and it seemed to go on a long time, without another word of insistence. Andrew's eyebrows drew together, before Henry appeared, his wan visage brightening. Quickly, he hurried Andrew into the tent, sparsely furnished with whatever spares they had for the man to commandeer.

"Come in, come in. To wha' do I owe the pleasure? I understand you're 'he captain of 'his merry band, isn't 'at right? You and Chuck know each other," Henry stated, arranging a cot for Andrew to sit on before he lifted a hand to gesture he'd prefer to remain standing.

"Yeah, we go a ways back. When Chuck was runnin' around with the Feds, I did a job or two with him, scoutin' through the South mostly. I'd never been bit by mosquitos so bad in my life as on that damned trip," Andrew chuckled, eyes on the stone floor. It was quiet a moment before he said, "Well, I'll be right honest with y', Sir Warren, I'm not entirely up to snuff on all this... research you've been conductin' out here. You and Chuck been doin' it a while, yeah?"

Henry's expression grew nostalgic, eyes far away. He nodded his head, scratching his newly-shorn beard.

"Years, though it doesn't weel like i'. Angie was a liddle thing then, bless her, hardly firteen and ready to traipse around wi'h us. Broke my hear' to tell her she couldn'... Well - wha' else is 'here you wan' to know? I'm sure Angie's told you."

Andrew put his hands in his pockets, abruptly feeling as if he were under the lens of some naturalist as Henry waited for his question.

"This city we're lookin' for... Fabled, and all... What of it do we know? How to get there, what to expect. We're excavating tomorrow, of course."

Henry's mouth opened, an expression of understanding.

"Are you sure you don't wan' a seat? 'his will be quide the lecture..."

 

[Ritual Lobotomy]

THOMAS "TOM" O'REILLY|| NAVIGATOR

"Well then," Thomas opened his mouth to say as the light showed absolutely nothing, but the words remained frozen in a quick gape of his mouth when, with his peripheral, he caught a movement in the outer circle of light. A glimpse of something he had failed to identify before the voice sounded again, this time seemingly from everywhere rather than a point he focused on. Instinctively, he looked around, tracking its source, but within dimly-lit circles, he saw none else but O'Keefe behind him and whatever just escaped his eye ahead.

"Exercising common sense, rather," Thomas heard himself mumbling out, almost insulted by the notion of the voice, before his mind even registered the horror in the situation.

The fear, it was mentioned. Was he expected to be afraid? Did his own mind now scream at him to be terrified, and he deliberately kept ignoring it? Or, perhaps, he was terrified, but the only response he knew was stubborn defiance towards the invisible assailant? Whichever it was that kept him rooted in place continued to do so even after the voice sounded again, closer than the man was comfortable with.

He talked to himself. He had to. He felt like an idiot being tricked by his own head to speak out loud. It was the narrow space, the shadows. Maybe even fatigue. All those things putting dialogues in his head that he did not actively pursue. Idiotic and non-sensical. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head briefly to see if it made any difference.

Focus.

Breathe.

Just fatigue.

And shitty booze.

The voice got replaced briefly with the sound of slithering movement. It came from the same point ahead. Thomas made a wary step back, securing his hand against the machete as the creature emerged from the darkness.

Fight...

Run.

He had wondered whether O'Keefe saw the same thing, or should he just admit he had finally lost all of his marbles somewhere along the way up to that point. But with the target now obvious, his eyes didn't dare fall off of it.

Fear...

Focus!

Like violent and unpredictable currents of a river, Tom's thoughts stormed and clashed as he remained fixed in place, intently focused on the creature. A machine? A hellish-looking exotic species? Or the impossible. A thing that was breaking his mind apart before he was even able to realize it and a reaction to it: an unsheathed blade.

The creature proceeded to move forward, forcing Thomas to make another step back and lift the blade in front of him with a deep, focused frown set on his face. He followed the behemoth of a snake as it raised the lantern in its maw, and this time, the sheer focus on the size of the enemy helped him ignore the fact that his mind spoke to him again and that he just knew that it was with the voice of the beast. How was that even a sensical thought that had occurred to him was irrelevant and such question damaging to his mental defenses. So he simply ignored it. If only for a moment.

Survive.

After all, why not deal with one mindfuck at a time? Somehow he knew: things would be going down the shitter from now on in all the wrong ways. And because of it, the initial alarm in his mind switched to intense disbelief in his own shitty luck.

"Well then," Thomas found himself returning to where he was so rudely interrupted, but this time with a follow-up. "One blow won't be doing shite to this one, comrade." A scoff followed as a signature of an erratic generation of resilience from the raw terror of the unexplainable.

 

[Red Thunder]

Tatyana Volkov
Crumbling Reality​

The tent flaps had gone limp, Lung El having departed at the Doctor's request. Ana still looked after him, the creeping tightness in her stomach intensifying. Madness. Hysteria, the Doctor said. No no, that couldn't be! Her? The Hound? With a mind so sharp as to cause the bourgeoisie to imprison her father and effectively drive her back out of the country, back into this damnable country and its damnable jungle? No!

Minding Bertram not at all, she hurled her bowl, the dregs of the soup flying everywhere. Best as they might, her feet carried her away, out from that dreaded thought and the tent, from the awful smell, stumbling past Lung El even as he turned to see what the matter was, far from- her mind was not her own. The more she fought the thought, the more it dominated her consciousness. And the more it twisted her stomach. She lurched, bloodying a palm as she caught herself on a more ragged frieze, and her belly emptied itself onto the floor before her.

Where had this started? Ana was perfectly sane before this damned jungle! In Russia, she had been passionate, lively. She'd been her own woman. Now, she was covered in sweat and vomit and tears and blood. Unrecognizable to herself from even two years ago. The torn skirt, the stink of the jungle, the Khuman To-

Tatyana began scrambling at her neck, fingers clawing at her blouse for the chain that held the damned demon child. This, this was the factor! This was what had changed! Roland, her own dreams at home, the chanting, the child on the debris, the towering ghost monstrosity. All of it came back to this golden curse that she had willingly and idiotically taken upon herself.

No more. With a final grunt, she cleared the chain from around her neck. She hurled it away, a scream tearing its way out of her throat as it disappeared into the darkness.

"Idi k chertu, grebanyy kusok der'ma!"

@Applo @Doctor Jax

 

[DayDreamer]

"There are only eight of them... but there are nine monks on the stele. One of the monks is missing. Some protection," Alex rolled her eyes, despite the woman not being able to see it on account of having her back turned to the guide. "Animals, gravediggers.... anything could have happened to the missing monk. I just hope....." Her sentence was cut short as Angela decided she didn't want to hear the rest. Apparently, something on the floor was more important. Important enough to ask Alex for a closer inspection. Important enough to spook her.

"You saw what happened to Taumai, didn't you? I could swear... I know I saw blood here. It's clean as fresh snow," As Alex approached to inspect the spot on the floor, she exhaled in exasperation. Really? The lack of blood on a spot she had never been to before? "Did someone come and clean this?"

"I was scouting when the accident happened. I haven't been....." The violent jerk of Angela caused Alex to draw her knife. It was a reflex move in response to Angela's sudden own, but she felt bloodlust breathing down her neck out of nowhere. Suddenly the chamber felt more oppressive, more hostile. "I doubt anyone would waste time trying to clean the blood. You probably have the wrong spot. Underground places can be like mazes. You think you are in one place and you end up somewhere else entirely." Her eyes scanned the chamber as she spoke. Scrutinizing the shadows, narrowed as a concerned predator's would. Or perhaps she was the prey and she did not know it yet.

Her knife remained at the ready. "It's time to rejoin the others. This chamber doesn't feel safe anymore." She ordered, much like she had when they were under the Airship's threatening approach.

 

[Kuno]

PETER O'KEEFE || RIFLEMAN
Location: Far reaches of the temple
​

When would they learn? They never learned. Him, Them, the expedition, mankind; constantly scraping, pulling, and digging their greedy paws amidst the untouched reaches of Earth. The canary in the mine was singing, and lo! What a song the warning was. It even came in their beautiful native tongue of Irish, words so innocent that one might have discounted as nothing so insidious as the sight that greeted them now.

He loved to hear the words of home. But Peter did not want to hear it coming from that thing.

It wanted them to see it; that sourceless voice in the night, that foul, coiled demon. The isolation of the two men in the heart of darkness never discomfited him so severely as when the lantern began to lift into the air. Meter by meter, second by second, the light rose, and with it their nightmare took shape.

Peter gasped.

Certain memories would follow him until he died. Fallen comrades, his wedding day, ashen skin turned blue from the cold - and now, too, the massive, metallic serpentine head would engrave itself onto his mind. This was...an illusion? No - it held the lamp. A cold sweat broke over his body as he realized how far he was looking up, how little he could see of the undoubtedly massive body that lay within the darkness, and how large the maw of the beast would be once opened.

Peter's head swung loosely to glance at Tom as he spoke. He had thought in the dreadful silence that the man had gone into shock, but ah - they were kinsmen of sorts. Men of softer ilk remained back at camp. Nevermind that the navigator's words amounted to nothing in the face of his blatant fear, equally reflected from Peter's own anxious features.

But that was alright. Fear and prudence would keep Tom alive. Peter would make sure of it.

"Here."

A hastily cobbled plan had come together in the scant moments that had passed. He all but forced his lantern into Tom's hands. The sweat prickled along the Irishman's nape and brow like spider legs running atop his skin. His leg throbbed from standing on it so long, and that pain helped maintain the urgency with which he spoke.

"I'm not getting anywhere fast with this leg. If it comes to it, you'll need it to get back and warn the others."

Peter didn't care to dwell on the grim implications for himself. He didn't allow Thomas much time for rebuttal, either; already he was wheeling away, the rifle still as a blade in his hands as he stared with some difficulty at the monster that awaited them.

It had spoken, seeking an answer. Even Jesus had answered the Devil waiting amongst the copses of trees in the wilderness, illuminating the truth. The truth; that's all the rifleman sought. And he would have it - either in words, or blood on the ancient tiles.

Truth. Either in that life, or the next.

"Cad ba mhaith leat uainn?" Peter's words were hesitant, the pronunciation a bit rough. It had been years since he'd used the language fully.

 

[Doctor Jax]

The serpent seemed little interested in Thomas, its great body sussurating against the vast stone flags that made up the floor. As Peter closed the gap towards it, it likewise did the same. And in doing so, it had a strange effect, an unnatural confusion, that seemed to rob memory, rob full and intended thought. It was as if it crammed every corner of the mind with its intentions, sowing dementia and discord into the fibers of the brain. And there was something else under that.

Chanting. It was even, subtle, with a lull to it, not like the Gregorian of the Catholic Church, but a fast-paced, throaty marching cadence. It held an urgency, a pounding to it, like feet on the warpath, just on the edge of hearing, felt more than heard.

"Níl ort ach seo. Fág an áit seo. Níl aon rud ar eolas agat faoin nimh seo. Is mise a choimeádaí. Cosnaím tú ón neamhbhásmhaireacht a bhfuil súil agat leis."

It seemed to chuckle at that, shaking its great head, as if telling a private joke. Upon closer inspection, the scales upon its body seemed to have an almost hypnotic effect, drawing the eye. The whole of the serpent seemed made of metal itself, a constructed being. But, without warning, it whipped its head down to meet Peter eye to eye.

"Ó ... ach ..."

The world bent. Everything in Peter's being seemed to fold, as if every nerve in his body was being rummaged through, pondered, roughly riffled for something. It was like having the soul peered over, every intention turned sideways and long ways, torn open and examined...

And the serpent laughed.

"Níl aon smaoineamh agat! Ah, níl aon smaoineamh agat cad atá á lorg agat. Is é sin bealach ríthe agus impirí. Coinníonn siad fir a bhfuil súile acu ach atá fós dall. Bí buíoch. Ní mharóidh mé tú anois. Ah, ach freastalaíonn tú ar dhá rí. Íoctha ag duine eile. Tá tú daoine chomh greannmhar. Cé atá tú ag iarraidh a shábháil, ceann beag?"

@Kuno @Ritual Lobotomy

***​

Angie felt a pall fall over her, hearing the voices. As she stepped back, it did not stop, and her eyes flickered about the long hall. No, no, she had seen him fall, right here. They had propped him against the stone... But yes, the young adventuress was correct. They needed to leave. This hall no longer felt safe, not at all. She nodded and gripped Alex's arm, letting her haul her to her feet. She brushed off her dress, glancing one last time to the monks that sat in silent vigil, illuminated by the lamps left in the room.

As the two walked back however, they were confronted with the sight of Tatyana having lost the comments of her stomach to the wall before them. Angie hurried to her, hiking her skirts in a bid for speed. She beckoned Alex come with her, and in her haste, she kicked the Khuman Tong on accident, with a slight gasp. However, she did not pursue it, instead thinking she had perhaps kicked a rock or piece of broken masonry.

It glinted further down, as if in waiting for someone to notice it and pick it up, its lurid golden features dimly glinting in the half-light of the lanterns.

"Miss Volkov... Miss Volkov are you alright?" Angie asked, bending to her level - and trying to avoid the sick on the floor. "Alex, perhaps we should fetch the doctor, either one. It seems like she's in shock over something..."

@Red Thunder @DayDreamer

 

[Red Thunder]

Tatyana Volkov
Freedom At What Cost​

Even as Angie and Alex hurried over, concern more obvious on their faces than even they're words conveyed, Tatyana had fallen forward. Her skirt frayed with the impact, the rough flooring scuffing her knees through the cloth. The "charm", or "curse" more appropriately, was gone, vanished into the darkness, Ana knew not where. Gasping for breath, she braced herself on her thighs, tense against her quivering muscles that threatened to go limp.

It was gone; without significant effort, she was unlikely to find It again. So why, then, did she feel- Why did her stomach turn the harder, and why were her eyes trying to pierce the darkness about her as they roved?

Muffled at first in her ears, Tatyana finally heard Angie's question of concern and the request to fetch the doctor.

"No!" she answered breathlessly. Her eyes remained downcast. "Enough ministrations today. I just- It will be fine. Thank you."

Holding the wall, she stood shakily. Her steps were measured, but she began to make her way to her own tent, smiling at Angie and Alex as she did. It did not reach her eyes.

"You are kind. I just need rest."

 

[DayDreamer]

As soon as they exited the darkness, Alex breathed a sigh of relief. She never liked closed spaces, but this temple was playing with her nerves more than any such space has had before. Apparently, she was not the only one.... Or perhaps it was jungle cuisine that did not agree with the Russian woman, as it was evident by the sickness.

Cling.... the sound of something metallic being kicked away caught her attention and the unmistakable glint of gold caught her eye. She was reluctant to leave to get the doctor when Angela herself could have just helped Volkov to the medical tent. Call her greedy, but she felt drawn to that little piece of gold.

"No! Enough ministrations today. I just- It will be fine. Thank you. You are kind. I just need rest." Ana insisted on her refusal and Alex shrugged. She really did not know what to do with this crazy team of foreigners. "She has guts, but I think it would have been better if she could keep them inside her belly at all times." Alex commented as her eyes looked towards where the glittering little thing had rolled to. "You should get some rest as well Miss Angela. I will stretch my legs a bit before joining you." She spoke with finality and followed the little rock into the darkness.

Returning to the Temple, she felt like shooting herself on the foot. It was not welcoming and, if anything, it felt more oppressive than before. But the little thing had her curiosity captured and she had to satisfy it. She didn't have to go long before something flashed in the light of the lamps and torches that were lining the place. Backtracking a few steps, she squatted down and grabbed the thing.

A string of Thai and English juicy words escaped her mouth as she brought the golden object closer to one of the lights and gave it a twirl in her fingers. A golden baby boy.... Why on Earth?! would they have something like this in their possession and, if it was not theirs, then who would have abandoned a Khuman Tong at the entrance of the Temple? What had happened to it's previous owner?

At any case, Alex decided it was best she left the Temple now that she had recovered what she had come to look for and getting more than she would have bargained for.

 

[Kuno]

PETER O'KEEFE || RIFLEMAN
Location: Far reaches of the temple
​

Fear of God and stoutness of heart kept Peter upright as the metallic demon approached. He did not pretend to be unafraid. Yet the weapon in his hands, meager though it may have felt when faced with such immense size, gave him enough courage to still himself, though his breaths quickened at how close the serpent got.

It was even larger up close than he had imagined. Something churned in his stomach like a great wave, and he felt - disgust? Anxiety? - roll up inside him tightly. It intensified as that thing spoke, and Peter said nothing, his face grimacing as a shield to hide his scared eyes.

Poison. It called what they sought- what Greene and Henry sought poison. Immortality as...poison. Dry though it was, Peter felt his tongue loosen, emboldened finally by a yearning to understand.

"Ca- Cad atá i gceist ag-?"

His thoughts left him the moment the serpent's head swung down to level with his own. Were he but a fish on the reel, and perhaps even then the man would have found greater comfort than he did then.

No; he was that fish on the reel. Swinging, gasping, uncontrollably writhing at the end of an invisible line. In one instant, he was displaced bodily; phantom sensations threaded throughout his form, rolling within his nerves, his limbs, his muscles, like fingers flipping through the layers of his anatomy. And then a demonic laugh sounded, and abruptly he was released.

Sharp pain laced up his bad leg as Peter jolted back a step, his eyes wild and wide open. His mouth opened to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again. And again. But...God, his chest, his chest-

"Fu...ck."

Purposefully and maliciously ignorant of the discombobulation it had rendered, the monster continued talking endlessly. On and on and on...the blood roared in Peter's ears, his heartbeat a frantic drum.

Who do you want to save, little one?

He couldn't kill this thing with his rifle. Could he? Maybe; his arms were like lead, slack against his legs. He flexed his fingers, tensing his muscles and letting the blood run through them properly. Metal covered the entirety of the strange beast, but within he had glimpsed flesh like any living thing. His mind went to the idea of the nearly impossible.

Would his wages go to Delia after, he wondered? Would she be ashamed he had died in such a foolish manner? Or proud, proud that he had done all he could to protect the members of the expedition?

He wondered if the serpent could see his errant thoughts. Surely not; it would have killed him already.

"Everyone," Peter finally answered quietly in English. Irish, at that moment, required too much thought. "No one else dies on my watch. I'll...see to it. To the end. And they'll keep pushing through. With or without me...do you understand?"

High on the possible finality of the moment, the rifleman at last locked eyes with the serpentine devil.

"You won't be able to block passage for long."

 

[Doctor Jax]

The doorway loomed before Alex, a single misshapen door encroached in strangling fig. The world outside was growing dark. Inside, they would surely not find anything good - nothing of worth, even for that prize of three thousand American dollars. Freedom loomed sweetly, abandonment imminent. There were things beyond comprehension here, at least the comprehension of the rational Western kind.

A screech tore through the air. High-pitched, desperate and reedy, like the terrified shriek of a woman, or the sudden and errant squeal of a pig, yet they were neither of these things. Outside the door, a shadow fell. Outside, a massive head came to hang sideways from a stalk-like neck, the gaunt and starved face of a pret peering in. Its eyes were sunk so far into its sockets, they were mere glass marbles in layers of flesh, like pearls amidst the folds of an oyster. Hair, limp and scant, hung from its head. The eyes were frantic and beady, staring into the darkness. Its nostrils flared, its mouth sewed shut tight as if embroidered, a tiny hole all that was left.

It screeched again, a high keening of frantic need. A bony hand jutted into the temple, searching, failing to reach Alex. Its fingers flexed, the sound of its fingertips against the stone like the feverish patter of a plague of rats. It reached inside the medicine tent, its fingers searching.

"Out!" a boyish voice shouted, Thai that Alex would understand. "Out! Leave!"

The child's voice came from a starved, dirty boy with long and unkempt hair, appearing as if from thin air before Alex, commanding the pret. However, a single screech and a flail of the enormous hand at him made the child scurry back, behind Alex, in terror.

Night was near. The ghosts would only thrive under cover of darkness.

The hand darted from beneath the tent, with a tiny chicken bone between its knobbled fingers, smashing it into its face in an attempt to shove it into what could only generously be called its mouth. It keened again, a tormented, frustrated sob. Its hand darted in once more, the distraught search begun yet again to find more scraps from Ana's tossed dinner.

@DayDreamer

***​

"Be careful, Alex! A-are you sure, Ana? I--" Ana began, following behind, before being interrupted by a familliar voice.

"Aaaah, Miz Wolkow. 'His is whortunate! I need a node daker!" Henry interjected, Andrew trailing him. Ana rushed to intercept them, aware her father's enthusiasm for ancient history might be overwhelming to the woman after such a fit.

A high pitched screech, muffled by the thick walls of the temple, hovered in the air from the direction of the entrance. None of the present company seemed to notice it.

"Father, I think--"

"Ah, actually, I need a note taker, I can't keep all this damn history straight. Ana, would you mind comin' with us? Mr. Warren was just about to tell me a bit more about what we're lookin' for, and maybe it might be a good idea to have someone along. ... You're lookin' a bit peaky, though," Andrew said, his eyebrows canted upwards in concern. "Everythin' alright?"

However, before she could answer, Henry was already steering her back towards his tent, despite Angie's grimace.

"Ah, if she has a weak stomac' I have some'hing for 'hat -- Whiskey!"

@Red Thunder

***​

The serpent seemed to consider Peter, its eyeless visage nevertheless intent on him. It swayed, just as a cobra would, hearing a silent tune from a snake charmer they could not see. It gave the impression of chuckling, the great serpent amused. It seemed not at all bothered by him here. The sensation of his very being violated finally ceased in its entirety, and the serpent slithered to completely encircle him, disallowing his escape.

"Still, what to? Wherein dost thou get? What has thine hand grasped? Ye fathom not, an anchor endlessly falling."

The coils tightened. The serpent was cold, radiating an iciness foreign to the humid clime of the jungle. Its breath washed over him, the snort of frigid, arctic air, like a maw of winter.

"Everyone, saith ye. Aye - not a one perish, if attain ye the beloved poison. But, is it a prize worth sweat?"

The serpent relinquished Peter, its coils traveling end over end in ever long rolls. The end of its tail flashed past - a bright gem set at its tip, briefly glinting in the light with a heartbeat pulse, quickly hidden again by the dark and kept out of sight.

"Alas, I am a lazy beast. Thine blood for my sweat, forsooth, is paltry trade. Begone, ye dying folk. I've no truck with you. I stay my fang, that ye may choose to die by some other folly," the serpent offered. "No trickery, no wiles. Ye have no toll, and force not the gates, and so I lay my head again to dream."

@Kuno @Ritual Lobotomy

***​

Charles stared at the letter on his desk, rubbing his drooping mustache, his chin, deeply in thought as he scanned the contents. His stomach roiled, but he knew that he needed to notify his compatriots in America of the circumstances. Perhaps he would send that girl, Alex, back to the landing. She had brought her own boat, had she not? She could go back to Ayutthaya, quickly, and have the letter telegraphed. If Henry asked, it was a letter to his mother.

He picked up his ink pen, blotting it. In even script, he began to pen.

Strange happenings here. Henry gives me nothing. I remember, but only I remember, seemingly. This thing is dangerous. Should I fail, my full account is above. Send another, but do not contact Henry. I worry the jig is up. Other crew all dead. Resource must be destroyed, before Siam or Atticus finds it. Godspeed.

With that, the financier allowed the letter to dry, sprinkling fine sand to set the ink.

And then he was in the Monk Room.

Henry blinked, hard, but it was too late. His hand was already swinging down, a hammer in hand, a chisel at the stele. In that moment of clarity, he jolted, and the hammer struck his hand full force, earning a loud cry as his thumb snapped beneath the head. Blinding pain assailed him as he dropped the chisel to the floor, his hand bleeding over the untouched, white ground.

How did he get here? He had no memory of it, no recollection of rifling through the toolbox near Andrej's tent, of walking down to the Monk Room with a lantern, of taking aim a pristine piece of its edifice. The memory was obliterated by a wave of pain as he leaned against the stele, biting his lip, his thumb turning a dangerous puce. Beyond it, dribbling blood rolled like beads against the white stone - and disappeared into the dark spaces between the lattice of the floor in front of the stele, attracted by an unknown force that left not a single trace of red in its path. He took a shuddering breath...

...and squeezed his thumb, muffling a cry, the blood dribbling down onto the stones, to yet again disappear.

"What is this place?" Charles huffed to himself, looking back at the mummified monks keeping their silent, eternal vigil.

 

[Ritual Lobotomy]

THOMAS "TOM" O'REILLY|| NAVIGATOR

The heat of the lantern was the first identificatory thing that registered with Thomas, even though he managed to get a clear look at it as it was shoved against his chest. It was hard to determine whether he sounded more confused or more insulted by the unexpected burden of being expected to stand aside when he spoke up.

"What are ye-"

And the hasty request did nothing to fix Thomas' soured mood.

"This feckin' lad," he mumbled to himself before he spoke up, keeping close behind the man. "I ain't warning shite. The sound will surely travel, and they've got bloody ears. Sure as hell should learn to use 'em."

He had no loyalties to any but the coin he was promised. Especially now that they were sent in and left to their own devices. And even if he had any doubts about it, it now seemed like a very appropriate sentiment.

"Don't be stupid," he scolded the man with accentuated formality as they both faced the creature, hoping to keep the encounter within the borders of realism, but alas.

"Feckin- What did I just say?!" Thomas couldn't help but grumble through his teeth once his comrade decided it was a brilliant idea to make the situation even weirder by indulging the beast with a question.

"Well, that settles it. If shite hits the fan, yer on yer own," he threatened to Peter, although it sounded as ungenuine as it was.

He tightened the grip on his machete as the creature extended its head towards Peter, but nothing had happened. Nothing erratic or primal Tom had expected, at least. In a way, the fact that nothing such occurred made it more unsettling. O'Keefe seemed to be occupied by the same kind of awe, except his entire being seemed to be hypnotized at sight.

"Ya lose yer gun, and it's over, O'Keefe," he pointed out in a futile attempt to regain Peter's attention.

The riffle moved insecurely in the man's grasp. Tom had doubts about how much a riffle or any other hand weapon would harm the thing but losing a rifleman over doubting his efficiency seemed like a shittier deal. Then again, what could either of them do other than accept their faith? They seemed to be expected to do so if the creature's brazen infiltration was anything to go by. All things considered, they were a perfect target - perplexed, alone, incapable of fighting back. What were the odds of spitting into the face of such malice and live to tell? Standing still and hoping for it to be over quickly was a favorable outcome and the one that his comrade seemed to have made his peace with.

"To hell with this, and to hell with ya," Thomas spat out, aggravated by Peter's stubbornness that prevailed even when his body wanted to give out.

"There's a time for charity, lad. This ain't it."

Driven by his own weakness, he stepped in, grabbing Peter's collar to pull him backward. He was well familiar with the sense of comradery that seemed to be washing away all of Peter's self-preserving instincts. And he was also well acquainted with the fact that the money neither bought it nor guaranteed it as it did not deserve it. He could hate him later when they both got out of it alive.

Thomas cursed his distraction from the surroundings in a single moment as a swift movement swiped his feet off the ground, throwing him backward. A cold stone ground welcomed him aggressively, even though he did his best to fall appropriately. No harm was done, although the landing was rough and humiliating.

"Ah, fuck me," he groaned out, sitting up in time to register a thick line of iridescent scales creating a barrier between him and Peter.

A brief feeling of urgency evaporated in the time he needed to retrieve his blade and straighten himself back up. In its stead, the annoyance was turning into anger as the creature spoke dramatically. Perhaps - if he was to be arsed - he would have made something out of its mysterious presentation of dominance. But as much as he tried to do so while searching for what would be deemed an acceptable reaction to such ungodly sight, Thomas found nothing but displeasure. It was not how he had planned to spend his day. The game of cat and mice dragged on far too long for his liking once the serpent released Peter from its grip, opening up the path forward once again.

With a deep frown set on his face, Tom exhaled, deciding to march towards the creature with his fists clenched. Weapons would hardly put a dent in the thing due to its sheer size so, for once, Tom didn't even bother to try. It was just one thing after the other...

"Well, now yer just pissin' me off." It was stupid before it was brave, and he was aware of the irony based on his previous directions given to Peter. Perhaps the only reason he stubbornly stuck to the subtle aggression engraved into the situation was the compensation for ignoring that oh-so-brittle self-preserving instinct.

"Bold of ya to be so high and mighty after just wastin' our time with yer games. Ya either smite us, or ya let us through," Tom demanded, pointing the tip of his machete towards the hellish head once he was in the range to cover for Peter. It was not a threat, but more of a tool for proving his point that just happened to be in his hand.

"What in the ever livin' fuck are ya doin'?!"
"Fuck if I bloody know. But I love it!"

"Because ya know what's worse than being chewed alive? Starvin' to death! How 'bout that?" What good was a filter when they were as good as dead in any other case? A task was a task. It was unlike O'Reilly to drop it and run. It wasn't quite the risk he had agreed on, but it fit the bill nevertheless.

"This lad and I," he proceeded, pointing back at his comrade, "we could not give less shite about yer potion. We're here to get paid for doin' our part and go on with our lives as far as they'll take us." He wasn't precisely sure whether such a claim truly reflected on Peter and the others. Still, the details of it were irrelevant in the moment of Thomas' adrenaline-powered boldness.

"Yes. Yer a lazy one, alright. Lazy enough to waste yer time with the messengers instead of the man that brought us here!" he exclaimed louder than he expected. Greene and his ambition remained an important factor that further fueled his anger. He was the one that got them in that mess, and he was the one that should be having this conversation.

"So, how 'bout ya let us get our hard-earned coin, and ya settle yer problems with the big guy instead, eh? Sure as hell, he'd be more worthy of yer precious time. God forbid ya have eternity to spare."

That was it. A death wish. Certainly. And still, while standing in front of the giant creature, he maintained a smirk. Whether it was there to reassure him or the enemy was unknown to him either. Perhaps, a little bit of both. He felt no courage, just an undefined drive fueled by spite.

"Godspeed, ya gobshite. Never fecking liked yer mug anyway..."

@Kuno
@Doctor Jax

 

[DayDreamer]

The piercing wail took Alex out of her thoughts just in time to stop and narrowly avoid a gaunt hand from swapping at her face. "No....." She drew a breath in disbelief. The immense creature before her was something she had never witnessed before. But she had heard the tales as a child. She had seen the rituals. She knew..... that, that thing was a pret. One hand drew her knife and the other stashed the Kuman Thong safely in the pocket hidden by the folds of her sash. Her posture change to one ready to spring to action. She could try and fight, but all she knew how to fight were things of the human realm. This was something else. Something not exactly from her plane of existence. And she didn't like her chances. All she could do at this point, would be to try and bypass it. Escape outside. Going further inside the temple was out of the question.

"Out! Leave!" A boyish voice commanded the creature in Thai and Alex's eyes widened at the appearance of a disheveled boy. The pret swang at them once more, regarding the boy as more of a nuisance than a threat as it continued its desperate search for food. On pure instinct, Alex placed a protective hand over the boy's shoulders as it hid behind her, frightened. Yes, the selfish smuggler that couldn't care less for others, had a soft spot for kids. "Stay hidden, when the pret moves away from the entrance, run outside." She instructed the kid calmly as she regained her wits, her eyes narrowed as she assessed the situation. She would just have to treat this like any other encounter that could have cost her her life so far. Focus, Improvise, Escape or Die. And she had no intention of dying tonight.

She moved slowly, carefully hunched over to minimize her presence, but still able to move around in fluent motions. The Pret was searching for food and Alex noticed the size of the hole left open for it to eat. There was no way it could successfully fit anything through that other than soup. Alex knew the rituals. But she had no time or all the tools to perform one to properly appease the ghost all she could do is try her best and hope the creature will be satisfied enough to leave them alone. Then she would make sure to perform a proper ritual to safeguard the camp. At least for the night.

Thankfully, not all food supplies were in the tent the pret was currently searching for. Alex barely left the ghost out of her sight as she quickly rummaged through the supplies. A single orange was in her hand as she oped she could find something a bit more liquid that she could offer the spirit.

-----
OOC: I am leaving this open bc I don't know how the pret will react to her moving about for food offerings.

 

[Doctor Jax]

The creature was frantic, desperate.

A starving ghost. As Lung-El had stated before, they were the ghosts of those who had died in greed, died in disregard of their parents or family. Lonely, massive creatures, forever trying to find something to put into the pinhole they now had as a mouth. This one, or what she could see of it from the open doorway, was presumably male, though that was hard to tell given the emaciated state of the walking, distended corpse. However, perhaps the stranger thing was the pret wore the rags of what had previously been Western clothes.

Lank hair fell around the gaunt face as it leaned down to look into the temple. A single, baleful eye of blue - European - stared into the building, frantically peering in the dark. A screech filled the air as it zeroed in on the orange in Alex's hand, devolving into wracking sobs of frustration. A hand punched back through the door and unfurled open, the palm of its hand big enough to engulf a healthy sized dog with ease. Its hand shook in urgency, smacking on the ground with loud thunder claps, demanding.

Now the sounds were softer, plaintive. The creature seemed to be trying to form words, but its mouth seemed to hinder it, only the most muffled of pleas making it out.

Outside, evening was beginning to fall. The light that filtered past it was orange, sunset beginning to descend.

@DayDreamer

 

[DayDreamer]

Alex had to fight herself from not retreating when the creature's massive hand sped towards her. Aggressive, demanding. Then suddenly, as if realizing something it became softer, more pleading than aggressive. Desperation was as clear as day on its gaunt, unnatural face. There was something very wrong about this creature despite its supernatural nature but Alex had no time to ponder what it might have been. She needed to survive the encounter first. Still, the creature seemed willing to negotiate instead of going to a blind killing rage and Alex found a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it would be easier to appease it long enough to perform a proper ritual later.

A soft nod of her head later, she reached out to the creature, carefully letting the orange fall in the creature's hand, and then it hit her. The juice of the fruit could somewhat satisfy the pret's hunger. Would the creature consider the possibility of opening up the fruit and squeezing the succulent liquid directly into the small hole that it called a mouth?

Not willing to risk the creature getting even more desperate and perhaps trying to see if she was more edible than anything else it had unsuccessfully tried to shove down the metaphorical pinhole, Alex reached for another orange, but this time, her knife cut the fruit in half, "Open it. Drink the juice and leave in peace." She spoke in Thai, some of the adrenaline rushing through her blood making its way to her voice, breaking it up despite Alex's best attempts at sounding confident. Her words were followed by a brief squeeze of one half, allowing a couple of drops to emerge from the firm meat of the fruit, but never falling to the ground. Alex did not want to waste any food as she extended her offering once more.

 

[Red Thunder]

Tatyana Volkov
Haunted Still​

A note taker , the old man had said. For what? Could not a man such as old Henry write his own notations? Would could he possibly-

Ana started violently, and only with great effort did she keep her stomach from further discomfort than it had already experienced. The scream. Wide with horror, her eyes shot toward the Temple entrance. Nothing. There was nothing. But the sound lingered, though whether it was simply protracted or whether it echoed in her mind was unclear.

Yet nothing of this could even be adequately reacted to, let alone communicated. Before she could reply to Andrew or even Henry, the latter was guiding her forcibly toward her tent, likely to gather her writing implements. Very well. Anything to distract her from the-

At their approach to the tent, which was not so far behind where Ana had emptied her stomach, Ana gasped audibly. In her fear and disgust at the Khuman Tong, she had thrown her bowl of soup across the stone floor. Yet, like a baby slapping around its spilled mash across a table, something had smeared the soup about the floor in a far wider arch than she had left it. Moreover, long trails of soup led off toward the entrance, as if something had been dragged through it to the outside.

"Ah, if she has a weak stomac' I have some'hing for 'hat -- Whiskey!"

"What? No!" Ana nearly shouted the last, the pent up emotion of everything finally given an outlet. "Excuse me. No, thank you. I- a drink of water will be ok. I will get my writing tools."

It seemed no coincidence to her that the screech came from the same direction as the trails led. With another terrified glance to the entrance, she scurried inside her tent.