Combeferre had seen a very familiar box bobbing in the waves as he made his way to shore. He would not allow it to sink, and didn't even allow himself to get to shore before turning back around to fetch it. He tosses his soaked backpack -- it wasn't waterproof and therefore his laptop and phone were probably worthless by now, but at least the underwear in it would come in handy later -- towards Bahorel and Courfeyrac before swimming back out.
The box he had checked for stowage in the plane's baggage compartment had been the best he could find at the time. He knew what the box contained: a few more clothes, some supplies for the outdoors, and most importantly his pair of pistols. After this, he would absolutely not be trekking into the unknown unarmed. It may well be that forces beyond their understanding were operating here, but the supernatural did not erase the natural, and he had no wish to be gored by a rhinoceros or eaten by lions or chased by cheetah or indeed deal with any other of the usual wildlife, if he didn't have to. The unease lessened slightly the instant he had a firm grip upon the box's handle.
Nearby were a few more of the plane's passengers, and with his other hand Combeferre waves at them while treading water. He could see, even from the distance of thirty or so feet, that they're hysterical. His belongings are heavy and hard to move, but he manages to get them moving towards shore. Thankfully, one of the group understands that the seats, torn out of the innards of the plane, are meant to be buoyant, and soon four more people are heading to the safety of shore.
Finally, Combeferre gets himself to shore, and once he's clear of the surf, he all but collapses to a sitting position near Courfeyrac and Bahorel. "Not bleeding," he answers the question belatedly, after a quick pass over his face and shoulders. "Perhaps quite bruised. I couldn't leave my pistols behind," he says with a grim smile, as he pulls them out of his box.
"I'm sorry I don't know what your things looked like," he apologises. "Otherwise I'd have looked for you."
His backpack was wet, but he figured he could discard the useless things and carry the useful within it, even if his friends' belongings could not be salvaged.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-04-17 02:42 am (UTC)The box he had checked for stowage in the plane's baggage compartment had been the best he could find at the time. He knew what the box contained: a few more clothes, some supplies for the outdoors, and most importantly his pair of pistols. After this, he would absolutely not be trekking into the unknown unarmed. It may well be that forces beyond their understanding were operating here, but the supernatural did not erase the natural, and he had no wish to be gored by a rhinoceros or eaten by lions or chased by cheetah or indeed deal with any other of the usual wildlife, if he didn't have to. The unease lessened slightly the instant he had a firm grip upon the box's handle.
Nearby were a few more of the plane's passengers, and with his other hand Combeferre waves at them while treading water. He could see, even from the distance of thirty or so feet, that they're hysterical. His belongings are heavy and hard to move, but he manages to get them moving towards shore. Thankfully, one of the group understands that the seats, torn out of the innards of the plane, are meant to be buoyant, and soon four more people are heading to the safety of shore.
Finally, Combeferre gets himself to shore, and once he's clear of the surf, he all but collapses to a sitting position near Courfeyrac and Bahorel. "Not bleeding," he answers the question belatedly, after a quick pass over his face and shoulders. "Perhaps quite bruised. I couldn't leave my pistols behind," he says with a grim smile, as he pulls them out of his box.
"I'm sorry I don't know what your things looked like," he apologises. "Otherwise I'd have looked for you."
His backpack was wet, but he figured he could discard the useless things and carry the useful within it, even if his friends' belongings could not be salvaged.