"I think you have thoroughly defeated that particular vine." Courfeyrac sets down his bag and stretches aching muscles. "Unfortunately it has about seven thousand avenging relatives that are now going to make our lives miserable."
Swatting at the nearest mosquito, Courfeyrac frowns in annoyance. He can understand why Bahorel decided to attack the tree, just like he can feel the same unease that Combeferre had given voice to. There's something out there. There's something following them... or drawing them. He doesn't like either option. Today has pretty much been a day of dislikes, actually. Plane crashes are just as unpleasant in person as in imagination. Abandoning people is one of the hardest decisions he can remember having to make, and he remembers enough flashes of battlefields to have plenty of instances to draw from.
Snippets of memory rise up again, disorienting. Fighting with a sword. Screaming with a gun in his hand. Huddling in the sand while something explodes nearby, deafening him with a whine.
Shaking his head, Courfeyrac pushes the memories away. Strong emotion has always been his connection point to his memories, but they aren't helpful now.
He's just about to suggest that they begin walking again when there's the sound of rustling in the underbrush, and he tenses, gesturing toward the area. He doesn't know if they need to prepare for a wild boar or for something less mundane, but preparing is a good idea either way.
He's not sure there's anything that could prepare him for a naked human child to stumble into their little clearing. The girl's small, perhaps three feet tall, her skin the same brown color as the tree she leans against. The child tilts her head, staring between the three of them, and a tiny bell woven into her hair chimes, the sound beautiful and out of place amidst the droning of insects.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-03 02:27 am (UTC)Swatting at the nearest mosquito, Courfeyrac frowns in annoyance. He can understand why Bahorel decided to attack the tree, just like he can feel the same unease that Combeferre had given voice to. There's something out there. There's something following them... or drawing them. He doesn't like either option. Today has pretty much been a day of dislikes, actually. Plane crashes are just as unpleasant in person as in imagination. Abandoning people is one of the hardest decisions he can remember having to make, and he remembers enough flashes of battlefields to have plenty of instances to draw from.
Snippets of memory rise up again, disorienting. Fighting with a sword. Screaming with a gun in his hand. Huddling in the sand while something explodes nearby, deafening him with a whine.
Shaking his head, Courfeyrac pushes the memories away. Strong emotion has always been his connection point to his memories, but they aren't helpful now.
He's just about to suggest that they begin walking again when there's the sound of rustling in the underbrush, and he tenses, gesturing toward the area. He doesn't know if they need to prepare for a wild boar or for something less mundane, but preparing is a good idea either way.
He's not sure there's anything that could prepare him for a naked human child to stumble into their little clearing. The girl's small, perhaps three feet tall, her skin the same brown color as the tree she leans against. The child tilts her head, staring between the three of them, and a tiny bell woven into her hair chimes, the sound beautiful and out of place amidst the droning of insects.