Into the Depths: Investigating the Shimmering Shore Tunnels (Group 4)

The timbre of voices caromed off every wall, every crook and pore, their interlacing odours almost inebriating her nostrils as the sod, unwittingly, shook with a fervid ferocity once again. It felt outlandish, otherworldly, suffocating Lebraid’s senses before it devoured them whole; she had no time to move or even think, plunging further below.

A leaden grunt, thereafter the concave, purged from the graveyard’s sooty lips, billows of grime tumbling with every breath -- but then, a foul stench -- acrid and earthy, it mixed with a raw clot of sulphur. Those bleak, tintless nebula’s blinked in cognisance of what the fuck just happened, where thick, plaiting roots embedded themselves into the subterrestrial caves as if to impede, asphyxiate. She was irked, to say the least, and being confined with others made those unpredictability’s more, well, combustible. It was like a game of russian roulette, and an eerie, gritty rumble perforated from within, hackles bristling afire –– one spoke, taking off to find a way out of this bockety web. However, their efforts were nugatory, and a scoff instilled with ridicule, despondency, holding no expectations for the wolves she’d been ensnared with.

Were they foolhardy, perchance?

Would they be the reason she perishes beneath a world she had yet to fester in? To rule, even, or be afeared by all?

There was no reason for her to believe she couldn’t prosper again, and a qauver imprisoned her moonless skin, “Perhaps pick a route that isn’t blocked by roots.” Short, words were garrotted in slovenly vocals, torn by figurative glass dregs that rouse no healing; standing, she’d wait. Conversing was far from coveted, yet the only solution, for now.

Action. | “Speech.” | Skill.
“Wrong me once, I’ll kill you twice.”