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

Disquiet and infuriation seemed to be evident in not only herself, but everyone, and their attempts to impede, impale, were only met with frenzied recriminations. As expected, though.

If it were she who wept a monstrous guise, vehemence sounded more probable than not; still, that did not mean she appreciated the vermin’s slooshing, viscous tyranny. Lebraid’s barrel proved successful natheless, the others biffing in raw unity -- lurement needling, the worm’s petaled, spinose jowls part with intention -- and then, a series of foreshocks bulwark the labyrinth’s fissured entrapment as it hurled forward. Achromic eyes tapered sharply at the wreathing varmint, watching it get torn by crag shards and teeth –– girdles of thick, dewy, pulpy flesh oozed like barby, envenomed concoctions. Spurting, sputtering, thrashing and flaying, there seemed to be no end. A dire, miasmic growl thundered from the graveyard’s gullet, ropes of spittle mutilating sable lips; skin jerking, nerves tingling, the sickly git promised berserkers once more. Mossbed, lemongrass and siam hackles took umbrage like wildfires in summer’s blaze, seeing it mash the coal, pastel-bleached woman against the cavern’s wall. She’d plume a devilish snarl, preparing to intercept -- albeit, the wailing invertebrate’s midsection was sheared clean open -- pulpous, fleshy, glutinous fluid belched from its gaping wounds, springing brooks of soppy insides. It was about fucking time; Lebraid did not fear death nor monsters, but dying for a cause that served no purpose to her was certainly not an option. That wintry gaze bled over the group, breaths rather leaden, laboured, as she ogled the pile of bathetic madness.

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