Bahorel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
revolution_is_a_riot) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lesamisdodw2013-02-04 01:11 pm
revolution_is_a_riot) wrote in lesamisdodw2013-02-04 01:11 pm
Finally... Punching Africa!
Who: The Rescue Party (Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bossuet, and Jehan)
What: Embarking across the Atlantic to find their lost brethren
Summary: Plane rides, lions, supernatural encounters, and other African adventure shenanigans
Warnings: Language and Violence, very probable
General posting order will be determined by initial posts. (Intended as a loose guideline to prevent 5-person mayhem, and may change depending on who/how many are actively posting at a time.)
Status: Ongoing
Bahorel hummed absently to himself, lounging against a wall of the airport lobby. He checked his watch, ruffled through the stack of tickets in his hand, and tapped a foot against the backpack beside him. He was never very good at waiting.
Resisting the urge to wander around, he held his place impatiently, and waited for the others to arrive.
The pack at his feet was as small as he could manage, crammed with carefully planned supplies. It would be taken and stowed with the other baggage once they checked in, and he hadn't really brought anything in the way of carry-on luggage. Why burden himself more than he had to?
On the other hand, his lack of carry-on bags or frivolous objects meant that he was really, really not looking forward to this plane ride.
He hated planes.
Not because of the height, or the possibility of crashing and burning and death, but because they kept him trapped. Trapped in a tiny little excuse for a seat, crammed like a sardine next to other people (often strangers), with nothing to do. He hated being unable to move, to occupy himself with something physical.
Unless he was drunk, chatting with friends, or watching a movie, he was never one to sit still (and often didn't even during those activities). Plane rides were hell.
He desperately hoped he'd be able to just sleep through it. But he knew it was likely a lost cause. There was too much adrenaline pumping through his system already for sleep to be much of an option.
If only teleportation was real. Then he could just zap himself over there, and get started on the important stuff, without all the tedious waiting and sitting and stifling mind-numbing boredom in between.
He realized he was pacing, and made himself stop. The others would be here soon. It's not even that they were late, his impatience had driven him to arrive even earlier than they had planned. And once the others were here, he'd at least have conversation to occupy himself with, and maybe the plane would serve alcohol...
What: Embarking across the Atlantic to find their lost brethren
Summary: Plane rides, lions, supernatural encounters, and other African adventure shenanigans
Warnings: Language and Violence, very probable
General posting order will be determined by initial posts. (Intended as a loose guideline to prevent 5-person mayhem, and may change depending on who/how many are actively posting at a time.)
Status: Ongoing
Bahorel hummed absently to himself, lounging against a wall of the airport lobby. He checked his watch, ruffled through the stack of tickets in his hand, and tapped a foot against the backpack beside him. He was never very good at waiting.
Resisting the urge to wander around, he held his place impatiently, and waited for the others to arrive.
The pack at his feet was as small as he could manage, crammed with carefully planned supplies. It would be taken and stowed with the other baggage once they checked in, and he hadn't really brought anything in the way of carry-on luggage. Why burden himself more than he had to?
On the other hand, his lack of carry-on bags or frivolous objects meant that he was really, really not looking forward to this plane ride.
He hated planes.
Not because of the height, or the possibility of crashing and burning and death, but because they kept him trapped. Trapped in a tiny little excuse for a seat, crammed like a sardine next to other people (often strangers), with nothing to do. He hated being unable to move, to occupy himself with something physical.
Unless he was drunk, chatting with friends, or watching a movie, he was never one to sit still (and often didn't even during those activities). Plane rides were hell.
He desperately hoped he'd be able to just sleep through it. But he knew it was likely a lost cause. There was too much adrenaline pumping through his system already for sleep to be much of an option.
If only teleportation was real. Then he could just zap himself over there, and get started on the important stuff, without all the tedious waiting and sitting and stifling mind-numbing boredom in between.
He realized he was pacing, and made himself stop. The others would be here soon. It's not even that they were late, his impatience had driven him to arrive even earlier than they had planned. And once the others were here, he'd at least have conversation to occupy himself with, and maybe the plane would serve alcohol...
no subject
He chewed his bottom lip for a minute, thoughtful. "Normally I wouldn't advocate leaving behind people in need," he began slowly, "but if we stay and help them, they will look at us like we know what to do. Like leaders or--or mentors. And if they think of us as "leaders" or even have an inkling they know we know what to do, they won't leave us alone. We wouldn't be able to avoid the death march through the jungle with a group of crash survivors in tow."
Combeferre had felt the evil spirits too, that Courfeyrac described, and shuddered a little. They were the most malevolent presence he could ever remember. He knew it could only get worse, and the idea of dragging innocent bystanders into a possible spiritual hell was not an option for him.
"It's an awful thing to suggest, leaving people stranded here. But if we just go quietly, without attracting attention ... that might be better anyway." He gave Bahorel and Courfeyrac a grim smile. "We need to find Enjolras and Grantaire fast. I don't know if they need to be rescued or what, but I can feel it. The foreboding and dread and sense that there are Enemies" he pronounced the word to make the capital letter evident "hunting us. I don't think they're dead. I can feel our friends' spirits, somehow. It's nothing tangible. Just--a feeling. You know that white noise when you leave the tv on after taking out a movie? It's sort of like that. That's how I know they can't be dead. And so we should find them. I wish I had a compass," he said, suddenly frustrated with what he didn't have. Sure, the pistols were reassuring, but he could never find his way without signs, maps, or best of all a GPS, and he was a little worried that in this great big jungle in this great big continent it might take far too long to find their friends.
no subject
He is angry at this whole scenario. Angry that Enjolras and R got stranded and attacked here. Angry that two, now, planeloads full of people had been injured, traumatized or killed.
Angry that their best choice was to leave a blatantly hurt and scared group of people to fend for themselves.
Angry that something, something beyond what they could easily see or name, was targeting them.
And like he always does when angry, he longs for action. Something to punch, something to confront, something to beat to all hell until things are put right again.
"They'll be safer without us," he repeats quietly, as much to himself as to the others, looking back briefly at their fellow survivors. "Whatever crashed the damn plane won't be after them, for one thing." He mutters. He hopes, fiercely, that once the three of them have left, that help will find these people all the more quickly.
He grits his teeth, then abruptly shifts to a wry half-smile, and carefully slips away into the jungle brush.
no subject
And he and the others are going to find them and bring them home.
The fact that they have to start by abandoning people they could help stings, but forcing himself to remember what Eddie had said about the others dying helps him to come to terms with it. Hopefully rescue will find these people. If it doesn't, at least they won't get eaten by carnivorous trees. "We're currently walking targets. And even though I share your faith, Bahorel, that anything targeting us--or Enjolras--has bitten off more than it can chew, we'll be sparing these people that trauma, at least."
Slinging his backpack onto his shoulder, he unzips it and pokes through the water-logged contents, eventually pulling out a compass. A towel and some ibuprofen and a set of dry clothes that didn't have sand in them would be appreciated--especially a set of dry shoes, the squelch every time he shifts his weight is going to drive him insane--would also be appreciated, but the compass will do. Holding it out to Combeferre, he smiles. "Here. I think I packed about a half-dozen of these, all in different parts of my luggage, and now I feel less paranoid and more prepared. At least we can know what direction we're walking in."
Bahorel says something quietly, and Courfeyrac turns to ask him to repeat it only to see Bahorel slipping off into the jungle. Turning back to Combeferre, he grins widely, pushing his sea-drenched hair away from his face with one hand and gesturing toward the jungle with the other. "After you?"
no subject
Following Bahorel into the dense jungle, he feels all the hairs rising on the back of his neck. There are entities here that aren't friendly, and he shudders despite the heat and humidity. Glancing back, behind Courfeyrac, Combeferre can see some of the survivors forming into a group near the beach. None of the survivors seem to have taken any notice of the three of them, which he counted a small relief. Some were still floating in the waves, perhaps looking for more people or whatever other baggage floated to the surface, but he wasn't going back again. No. It's time for them all to start the search for real.
Combeferre's shoes made squelching noises with each step, and he hoped he would dry out a bit as he walked, though the muggy air was oppressive in the jungle.
"It doesn't feel right here," he mutters, turning toward Courfeyrac. "I feel as though someone is stalking us."
no subject
As they hike, he keeps as hyper-alert as his plane-crash-rattled brain will allow.
The going is slow and uncomfortable. The undergrowth and lower-story vegetation is terribly dense. It's difficult to make clear headway in any one direction without endless rerouting to get past obstacles, or a lot of hacking with a knife and generally getting tangled. Bahorel is in good shape, but the muggy cloying air and the rough going quickly soaks his clothes with sweat. Finally, with a muffled curse, he gives up and pulls his shirt off over his head. With the high canopy above offering protection, sunburn is less important to him that heatstroke.
He doesn't see or hear anything definitive during this first leg of the walk. But he feels what 'Ferre spoke of: a sense of presence and intent, of something bearing down on them. Getting closer....
"I wish it would fucking show itself." He growls finally, as they stop to take a short breather. "We're here. It made sure of that. What more does it want?" He kicks at some offending vines, punctuating his sentences. "It better. show itself soon. I hate. feeling like. something is. hunting me." He reigns his temper in, and stops kicking in order to catch his breath again. This walk was counter-productive enough without wasting his energy.
no subject
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.
no subject
"At least none of the other plane survivors followed us," he said as he stretched out on a pile of leaves. Combeferre didn't expect to see poison ivy here, per se, but he was still glad for the long cargo pants. He declined to follow Bahorel's example, despite how hot and sweaty he's become, because he's sure there's nasty jungle insects waiting to bite his bare skin. Having a shirt stuck to hot and sweaty skin may be uncomfortable but Combeferre is firmly certain that it's better than bug bites and rashes from poisonous plants.
Hauling out the water bottles from his pants pockets, he offers them to his friends. The water isn't even slightly cool anymore, what with the humidity and the proximity to his skin, but water is water. But as soon as he does so, Combeferre catches sight of the child.
"Who are you?" he calls out, uncertain if this is a lost child or a manifestation of the spirits, a mirage designed to drive them mad or at least astray. Combeferre wouldn't doubt that perhaps some native tribes lived here, but still the child shouldn't be wandering out here alone even if she did live here.
no subject
He raises an eyebrow at the girl, who stares back at him in bewilderment. "... Add 'Do you speak English?' to that list." He amends with a shake of his head.
bite
"Ow! Sunnofa-" He slaps at himself, but misses the offender. He is about to put his shirt back on, but pauses. He looks between the shirt, and the girl, a few times.
And then wordlessly holds it out to her.
no subject
"Hi there." Courfeyrac smiles at the child, taking a step toward her. He tries switching into Spanish, hoping that maybe she'll understand that. "Are you from around here? Who are you?"
Tossing her head, setting the tiny silver bell in her hair to chiming again, the girl stares at him, mouth pursed as though she's bitten into something bitter. She spits out a string of words in a language that Courfeyrac definitely doesn't understand, her voice deeper than he expected but also strangely melodic. The wind picks up, stirring the trees around them, and there's something of that sound in her voice, too, a gentle undercurrent that mimics the quiet rustling of the forest.
"Sorry." Courfeyrac shrugs. "I don't speak that language."
The girl rolls her eyes, turning away in frustration.
Something bites at Courfeyrac's neck, a sharp, stinging pain, and he swats at the offending insect.
He doesn't know if he gets the mosquito, but a tiny firefly drifts away from him and toward the child. It lands on her arm, and she turns to look at it, her expression changing to one of amusement and, eventually, serenity. The firefly takes off, and she turns back to them, smiling widely, displaying small, perfect white teeth. Tilting her head to the side, causing the bell to ring once more, she takes a small step toward Courfeyrac and speaks in quiet, stilted French. "Where are you going?"
no subject
"We're looking for our friends. Have you seen anyone else come this way?"
Was it possible that this child had seen Enjolras and Grantaire? knew where they were going? Was it possible that she wasn't, in fact, a child at all? From what they knew from the beginning of this trek, anything at all could be possible.
Combeferre focuses on the child's face and features. Her hair, and the bell within it. Her lack of clothes. Something about her just doesn't seem to fit. Her voice sounds too old; her expression belies far more years than a child of that size should have. Though nothing in her expression or body language indicates hostility, Combeferre feels wary.
no subject
She takes a step closer to the group, smiling now.
Bahorel withdraws the shirt with a bark of laughter, pauses to pull it on, and remarks. "Sounds just like them. Where'd you see them, kid?"
Muffling a curse he swats at a few more bugs, and stiffens. Distracted from the conversation for a few seconds, he looks around, and even glances up.
"Okay, this is a fucking weird question. But did anyone else hear geese? Are there geese in Africa?"
no subject
Probably, but not necessarily, given that they know supernatural things are occurring. "I don't hear any geese, but I'm not the best at recognizing bird calls. You hear any geese, Combeferre?"
Turning his attention back to the girl, he considers her answer. He could see Enjolras and Grantaire being described like that, and there's a part of him that jumps at the possibility of having found a guide to them. On the other hand, what are the chances that this girl has not only seen their missing companions, but knows where they are and isn't planning something dangerous? "When did you see our friends? Do you know where they are now? Ow."
Courfeyrac slaps at another biting insect, frowning. At least some of the bugs are pretty, fireflies dancing amidst the others, blinking around Combeferre and Bahorel as well as him.
The girl laughs, the bell in her hair tinkling wildly. "There are only so many people like you here. How could we miss you or your friends? I would very much like to see you reunited with your companions, too. So please."
Holding out a hand to Combeferre and to Courfeyrac, the child smiles widely. "Follow me."
no subject
The insects around them are becoming insufferable, Combeferre decides. Even with a shirt on they are alighting (and biting) on all available bits of exposed skin. He wishes he had insect repellent, or citronella, or something on him. And as brightly coloured as some of the insects are, Combeferre well knows that many times, the vivid colouring is nothing more than a warning to larger, predatory beasts to stay away or be poisoned. He hopes that they're no worse than the mosquitoes and biting flies back home; and he hopes doubly that the many immunizations and preventive medications taken before the trip worked their magic the way they were supposed to. Sighing, he looks at the girl.
"Well, if you know where our friends are, then you know more than we do, so why not."
He glances first at Courfeyrac, then Bahorel. "I don't know if it's a trap or not, but it's worth seeing this through, just on the chance that we find Enjolras and Grantaire at the end of this trail." He spoke softly, intending only his friends should hear. Not that he was sure the girl understood the language he spoke. Combeferre does feel the apprehension that seems to hide behind his friends' expressions, but they are, after all, in very unfamiliar and dangerous territory.
no subject
"Lead on." He urged her gruffly, and resumed the trek through the muggy, tangled jungle, just behind his two friends and the girl. After a few moments of wary silence he spoke up again.
"This better not be a trap." He flashed his teeth, as she glanced back at his words. "If you're trying to fool us, you'll regret it." He growled, loud enough to be understandable, quiet enough to bring the point home. "And you better tell us what you know. Everything you know about what's happened to our friends. I want answers."
He had a brief thought that intimidating this small girl was not exactly fair. But, given the circumstances, her odd amount of knowledge and poise regarding them, and the general tension of the situation...
Fuck it, one way or another, she's trouble, he decided. He eyed her unhappily from the back, and slapped with irritation at his neck. Maybe he should be even more worried that the first person, or being, they encountered looked so small and weak. It practically reeked of storybook treachery.
She set a good pace at least. With her as a guide, the three travelers finally started making progress through the dense, greenery-choked, environment.
no subject
"How?" Courfeyrac leans down so that he's on eye-level with the child again, debating between reaching out to touch her and keeping his hands at his side. The paranoia that the others feel isn't something he's immune to. "Why do you know them, and why are you guiding us?"
"Where they walk things wake and blood flows." The child turns away from him, heading into the jungle. Her voice is cold. "Do you know how much death has already come to those in their shadow? No, of course you don't. You are still sleeping, yourselves. No matter. Follow me. I will guide you."
The child doesn't respond to further questions, shaking her head as though she doesn't understand, and Courfeyrac shrugs before traipsing along behind her. They've no better leads, and she seems to be leading them westward, in the vaguest idea he has of the proper direction.
The insects continue to harass and bother them, biting repeatedly, and Courfeyrac swats at them, hoping that crushing a little blood-filled body against a tree or into the dirt won't count as bleeding on the ground. It's only after an hour or so, when he absently scratches at his arm and realizes that it doesn't itch terribly like he normally would after mosquito bites, that he realizes how different this is from normal. Suppressing a little shiver, he studies his unmarred skin, telling himself that having a healing factor is a good thing. Really.
They finally stop for the night as it's getting dark, in a small clearing near a swift-flowing stream. The girl turns to them, and her eyes gleam bright in the fading light. "We'll stay here for the night. Sleep. Eat."