21 December 2011

quork: A sketch of a woman on a raven, white on black. (cosmic flight)
There were horrors in the room, but the girl wouldn't - couldn't - let that distract her from the business at hand.

It was a sticky, icky business. Her eyes were wide, the whites fully visible around the dark blue irises. Her face was filthy with unholy muck from another not-realm. But she was set and ready to extract Sir Callum from the grotesquely squicking eel that had swallowed him. The battlelust drenched her vision: all she could see was her knife sliding through unspeakable viscera and slimy, squiggly skin, freeing her friend from his tubular prison, the knife, the slice, the freedom.

So intent was she on her plan that she saw it too late; another of the monstrous eels vaulted toward her.

She had only a moment to scream before its terrible mouth came down on her.


Everywhere. All around. Unrelenting pressure. Pushing. Crushing. Swallowing.

Her arms were smashed up against her chest, bent at awkward angles. She could faintly - very faintly! - feel the knife in her left hand. The eel's body hardened around her; the contraction pulled her deeper into its hateful body. Her legs were bound together, knees knocking, joints straining. She tried to kick and could not! Foul, viscous slime slipped down her throat. She could feel the thing's sick heartbeat, thumping in counterpoint to her own high, thin pulse. She thought the dissonance might drive her mad.

Her chest was compressed. She could not breathe! Her air was running out. Push. A little further down the tract. Red threads of panic began to weave a complex course behind her eyelids. At the edge of her awareness she felt the burn of the monstrosity's digestive juices, a distant pain that slowly began to flare. She had to get out!

The girl focused her will, the will that had kept her alive for more than five hundred years. The will that had helped her reconcile with her animal nature, the will to fluidly move between those worlds. She would not die as this abomination's dinner. There were more battles in her future, this was not her end.

She twisted her left wrist, accepting the sharp pain of the small bones grinding together. The blade came up, and she thought it was just enough. And that was good. Suffocation. Pressure. Time was running out. The first black blooms of unconsciousness appeared as she pushed with all her gathered might, pushed out with the blade in a savage, ripping arc.

The knife slid through the eel's revolting skin like butter, and with a few determined thrusts of her legs and arms, the girl splumped out of the writhing body. Endless gobbets of stringy, sticky guck poured out around her. With a great wrenching glurt, she ejected an alarming quantity of slimy goo, coughing and choking.

For a moment, she lay on the floor in her puddle of eel slime, trying to gather herself before she took up the fight again. It would not do for this to happen again.


quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
Croárc ná Corvain

May 2012

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