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
"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."