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

Had Lebraid known she’d become squashed against pitted fissures, despite wanting nothing more than to get the fuck out, decree’s may’ve differed —— grit and dross abraded athwart moonless skin, pleaching roots rending where it needn’t be, all while claustrophobia began to fretfully sink in. There was a pause, and not intentionally, as a cavernous, weaponised snarl propelled from inken jowls, slaver ornamenting those serried, ivory canines in a most deviant displeasure. It thundered off the engird space, high-pitched and ghoulish.

Why, pray tell, must this be so burdensome?

Were they simply toying with her now?

She didn’t like it when things didn’t go her way, an infirmity she could not correct, or rather didn’t want to; legs felt taut, almost interwoven over one another as she attempted to step in reverse, jostled jacket splaying in a state of icen panic. The very feeling of it was overwhelmingly detestable, unwonted, a meekness the woman dared not surmise, especially here. She’d continue to push, squeeze, jolt and thrust -- cuts embedded, yet efforts did not blunder -- eventually, and what felt like a goddahm eternity, Lebraid stumbled out of the compressed tunnel with a malefic grunt, greyscale nebula’s strabismic where legs spread to assume a sense of permanence. This was futile, honestly. So, what now? A low, gravelly exhale perforated past wet lips in observation of the unravelling, origins therein coated in a glutinous substance, sapping into beads that bled a pool underneath. The overgrown roots possessed tendrils more elfin, however, albeit its neighbouring relations.

The wolf had never seen this before, crown soon lumbering to ogle as she orbited the pair, slow, calculating, silent —— a dead air permeated from her imperceptible soul, saying naught at the expense they’d figure it out themselves, so she didn’t have to.

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