[ They move from camp to camp because it's easier - it calls attention to itself, certainly (though this one, mysteriously empty), but it's all the safer, all the better accommodation so long as you don't think too deeply about what it is you're sleeping on.
Will hasn't done much sleeping in the last few days. He shuts his eyes and Harvey decides his fate with a flip of a coin, deeming him a liability. A pickaxe would do nicely. He shuts his eyes and he sees natives swarming, pulling him limb from limb for his crimes against their race. He trusts nothing of his surroundings, and though it's taking a toll, it doesn't stop him from wandering.
Harvey is asleep, and Will can't help but stretch his legs, restless in this place and the bleak, claustrophobic kind of atmosphere it presents. He makes his way through a tunnel, a slant upward and into a clearing, another camp close by that could have proved a problem, had they traveled much of the perimeter. Exhaustion has made him lazy, but he finds his tensions perking as he lays pressed up against the cavern wall, head cocked around the corner to get a better look.
It's not more natives. Though it is recognizable.
(He hears it vaguely, a huff of a stag trailing behind him.)
Savagery is easy to come by in a place like this, with beings so innately violent taking up residence. He sees a Hannibal Lecter mussed and bloodied. Sated. Alive. And intrigue has always been a large part of a very specific kind of downfall.
He approaches with his hands spread wide, not a sign of submission but certainly a placating one - 'I will not hurt you,' it says, even with Zane's gun is tucked into the waistline of his pants. (Savagery is often unpredictable, but that's not to say there's no preparing for it.) Even with his own clothes soaked red as well, blood caked randomly about his forearms - there's only so much he could wash off. ]
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Will hasn't done much sleeping in the last few days. He shuts his eyes and Harvey decides his fate with a flip of a coin, deeming him a liability. A pickaxe would do nicely. He shuts his eyes and he sees natives swarming, pulling him limb from limb for his crimes against their race. He trusts nothing of his surroundings, and though it's taking a toll, it doesn't stop him from wandering.
Harvey is asleep, and Will can't help but stretch his legs, restless in this place and the bleak, claustrophobic kind of atmosphere it presents. He makes his way through a tunnel, a slant upward and into a clearing, another camp close by that could have proved a problem, had they traveled much of the perimeter. Exhaustion has made him lazy, but he finds his tensions perking as he lays pressed up against the cavern wall, head cocked around the corner to get a better look.
It's not more natives. Though it is recognizable.
(He hears it vaguely, a huff of a stag trailing behind him.)
Savagery is easy to come by in a place like this, with beings so innately violent taking up residence. He sees a Hannibal Lecter mussed and bloodied. Sated. Alive. And intrigue has always been a large part of a very specific kind of downfall.
He approaches with his hands spread wide, not a sign of submission but certainly a placating one - 'I will not hurt you,' it says, even with Zane's gun is tucked into the waistline of his pants. (Savagery is often unpredictable, but that's not to say there's no preparing for it.) Even with his own clothes soaked red as well, blood caked randomly about his forearms - there's only so much he could wash off. ]
Making yourself at home, I see.