Into the Depths: Investigating the Shimmering Shore Tunnels (Group 3)

Barely.

It is a word that Gilgamesh now found refreshing.

He had not planned surviving his decision. Stuffing himself down the throat of the worm had been rash and simply put, idiotic. Asking, no, begging for death. If he wasn't going to return home, what left did he have to lose anyway? Why not go out in a blaze of glory? Is that not what he always hoped for? His pride would not have allowed him to cower. To sink back and hide was never an option.

Surviving though was apparently an option he had never expected. Laying there in a bundled heap of nearly nothing, he wheezed goopy breaths into nearly deflated lungs. His yellow goat-like eyes attempt to blink, but whatever he is covered in is making it difficult. Honestly, he doesn't have enough strength to even lift his head to look at the carnage. Beneath him, the ground trembles before it stills. Silence begins to settle around him.

Was he dying?

Everything ached. Every inch of him was searing with pain. A slimy itchiness that he so badly wanted to slough off of him, but couldn't. Stuck to the ground like a chew up wad of gum. Dirt sprinkles from the ceiling, a sickening crunch following the dense thud of boulders falling on a body. Who just died? Not him! Maybe it was that Fatalis. Oh, that would bring him glee if it was. Hopefully not the pup though, so innocent and undeserving of such a brutal death. Wait, maybe he should be focusing on himself.

Wiggling his toes, Gil checks to see if he can still feel his legs. Yep, there it was. A brief tingle that was more than sluggish, a brief twitch. Walking was out of the picture, even sitting up felt impossible. His lungs wheeze again, forcing him to cough. Lips part violently as mucous sprays from his open mouth. His eyes crush shut, ears feeling as if they pin against his head but failing. Weak, so weak, and cold. Very cold to the point he's shivering. The gore, blood, and goo he's covered in only serves to insulate the chill that seeps into his bones. Why was he so cold?

One yellow eye flicks to the corner of his vision, attempting to look. Look at his body, see the damage. Other than getting hit by the rock, was there anything else? A slight lift of his chin, perceivably impossible without great effort, but he manages. He wishes he hadn't. What he can see is disgusting. Putrid. Other than being completely coated in whatever slime that thing was filled with, he is missing... fur. Lots of fur. Was that worm filled with acid? It would explain the sizzling pain that flickered over his body.

Spots of skin along his shoulders and hips were gone, completely gone. Open, bright red wounds covered in that green goop burned. No, no, please, adrenaline come back. Gil's eyes water, forcing them shut once more as his body begins to tremble. Incinerating pain begins to envelope him. Starting from the open lesions to the bare skin to the thinned areas where the fur barely clung on. Bare for everyone to see. Why weren't they helping him? What was going on? He could barely see anything through the film over his eye, couldn't even lift his head or speak any words.

Maybe he would've been better off dead.

The Raid King, Gilgamesh