Nov. 17th, 2014

mellotron_breakfast: Purple and green light shining through dry ice fog. (Default)
After a couple of turns, the tapers were dead, but some form of brilliant lighting was at the end of the forked tunnel that was bone dry in this last section. It seemed to provide adequate lighting for this last leg of the journey. He kept making his slow way along until his eyes adjusted to the level of illumination, letting him know that a floor stone here and here stuck up from the others, and there was not much effort put to making it look like any proper mortar lay in the cracks around such stones.
He navigated around them and felt the walls, and he learned more with his hands than with his eyes; here were some cavities in the walls, where rope appeared to be wound to a level of tension that could not likely be sustainable in the long run; here were dusty clubs, like the clubs every rider carried to strike things that didn't need to be cut, laying flat and level with the rest of the wall. Tibor suspected he understood the nature of this dubiousness: you stepped on one of the false stepping stones, and then some catch holding the rope tense would be released, and then a club would swat you in the face. If you stumbled around in pain, you would probably step on the other stones and get swatted by all of them.
While the gang lacked the resources to build their own tunnels, they evidently had no problem modifying derelict things to their purposes.


mellotron_breakfast: Purple and green light shining through dry ice fog. (Default)

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