He grunts, unhappy at the idea of touching the thing, but- well. On the list of awful shit happening right now he guesses that doesn't really rate.
Or, it shouldn't. Still does, kind of. Might not be so bad, if he only knew a little less about what the thing actually is.
Doesn't matter. The Bull's getting his shit together.
"I'm going, I'm going," he grumbles, like that 'when you're ready' had been Dorian pushing him to get going. It wasn't, he knows, but it's easier to act like he should be acting, that way.
If he wants to get going, he's going to have to go back to crawling. Have to get on his knees - well, knee - like the space is even smaller, as small as it was, crawling not like he's ready to fight but like a wounded thing, a deer or something after a hunter's badly aimed shot.
But that's what he is. It's what he needs to do. He leans against the wall, hunches over further, manages to fall onto his good leg. Takes a breath.
Okay. Next. Dorian's going to follow him. No good trying too hard to convince him otherwise, especially not when pretty much everything the Bull's got is stuck somewhere near the back of his thoughts, the instincts, stuck on something far away from the well-ordered surface of his mind.
If Dorian's going to follow him, he's going to need something to follow. A voice.
"Let's go," the Bull says, voice that little bit farther from the crack again, low down to the ground. "So," he starts after that, putting something brisk in his voice as that pressure squeezes at his chest and winds tight through all his muscles, forcing the effort in to sound something close to casual. "While you've got me here, there anything you've been wanting to say? Anything that you want to ask? Get as rude as you want. Not like anyone else is around to hear it."
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Or, it shouldn't. Still does, kind of. Might not be so bad, if he only knew a little less about what the thing actually is.
Doesn't matter. The Bull's getting his shit together.
"I'm going, I'm going," he grumbles, like that 'when you're ready' had been Dorian pushing him to get going. It wasn't, he knows, but it's easier to act like he should be acting, that way.
If he wants to get going, he's going to have to go back to crawling. Have to get on his knees - well, knee - like the space is even smaller, as small as it was, crawling not like he's ready to fight but like a wounded thing, a deer or something after a hunter's badly aimed shot.
But that's what he is. It's what he needs to do. He leans against the wall, hunches over further, manages to fall onto his good leg. Takes a breath.
Okay. Next. Dorian's going to follow him. No good trying too hard to convince him otherwise, especially not when pretty much everything the Bull's got is stuck somewhere near the back of his thoughts, the instincts, stuck on something far away from the well-ordered surface of his mind.
If Dorian's going to follow him, he's going to need something to follow. A voice.
"Let's go," the Bull says, voice that little bit farther from the crack again, low down to the ground. "So," he starts after that, putting something brisk in his voice as that pressure squeezes at his chest and winds tight through all his muscles, forcing the effort in to sound something close to casual. "While you've got me here, there anything you've been wanting to say? Anything that you want to ask? Get as rude as you want. Not like anyone else is around to hear it."