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

Despite it all, the writhing vermin refused to concede, or even die.

A sea of merciless malevolence wept from the graveyard’s glower, nebulously sharp and unpredictably agrestal. It was as if a firestorm blazed from the worm’s mutilated rage, its hollering, harrowing wauls pulsating off the labyrinth’s craggy, war-torn walls, wet grot flaying and furnacing in every-which direction.

She’d continue to pace, jaded by its bleak games and spewing convulsions; there was nothing normal about this situation, and Lebraid, above all else, wanted to ensure that this foul invertebrate would see its dour, gory end, no matter what. The split dispassion provoked temptation, yet jerking spasms showed no charity — a loud, repulsing pop marred the atmosphere, snarls conflagrating like an avalanche in the sierra — fluid breached past her ajar lips, calculative of what to do next. Right, she’d had enough. Their attempts to coax it backwards paved fortune, albeit afflictions, and Lebraid saw an opportunity -- muscles taut, slaver serpentined every follicle underchin, cuspids becoming seasoned with grit and animus as adrenaline ran hotter than pumice. Thick with ferity, even, like the worm’s gamy goop. There was no time to waste, the hellion’s phantasmal demeanour daring to pervade souls, if it so had the chance; repositioning to face the spinose critter head-on, a chasmic, primitive rumble plumed with sadism, conviction and a gut-wrenching promise that held no virtue. She would not die here, not for them, not for anyone, “Move.” The singular word bled in forewarning, therein launching from where she stood as her crown lumbered low and slanted, stowing in defence to avoid injury if possible.

Be it may, attempts to ram the bulbous rotter back to where it came from was her only intention, and hopefully their last.

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