"Yeah," he murmurs, and tries, knowing it won't work, to listen for the sound of Dorian's footsteps. "You too."
And then it's just him. Him, and the dark, and the stone on every side, and the beating of his heart. And the spirit giving him that light.
Be creepier if the thing could talk, anyway. He's probably better off.
He's been hurt worse than this, had to move quicker, without any backup to even hope for. The part of him that's saying this is just as bad as that, that this might be worse, that part of him is full of shit, and what he needs to do is move.
He moves.
Without anyone else to focus on, anybody else to think for, the world goes away. If the Bull was thinking of anything right now, he might say that makes all this easier. Worse, maybe, but easier. Easier to forget that there's anything but the stone beneath his hands, pain throbbing up his ankle and across his skin, in his muscles, the dark in front of him and the unnatural green shining off his hands and his breath quick in his ears. The sound of his leg dragging behind him. There's a rhythm you get into.
The way out takes him by surprise. He realises he's been seeing light for a while and when he looks up and sees the break in the wall it's coming from his heartbeat stutters, he leans against one wall in that way that doesn't really give him any more room but lets him pretend it does, and he breathes. And he breathes.
Dorian. Dorian is waiting for him.
He rolls onto his foot. He leans over on the wall. He stands, and looks at the pile of rubble in front of him, and feels the rest of the world starting to come back.
Rubble's up to his thigh. Nothing to do but try and climb over it.
He leans against the wall, lifts his leg. Tries to still his foot but it swings on his ankle without any input from him, and between leaning against the wall and breathing through the pain he doesn't catch the big stone knocked off the top of the pile before it's falling, the clatter echoing off the walls as it goes.
Might not be a problem. The air is dank here, wet and old, strong enough here to make the darkspawn smell hard to untangle from the rest of it. Hard to tell for certain.
The safe thing would be to turn back.
No one's here to keep it together for; when the thought makes his already tense muscles go stiff, makes his heart gamely try to go faster than it already is, he doesn't try to hide it.
He's here to find a way out, anyway. So he's going to find a way out. He finishes hopping over with his good leg, tries to make it quick enough that he can lean back on the wall, on the rubble, and not put any weight on his bad one.
Good. Next.
He still has to stoop but he can see just enough to tell that a little ways off, the room gets wider. There's a doorway there across the room. More than one, maybe. But behind this doorway there's light. The Bull hunches over against the wall and hops his way toward it.
And then, too late, he hears a noise. The smell starts getting stronger. The Bull starts thinking very quickly.
Getting to the doorway is his only chance. It's a shitty chance, but not letting them surround him might be all he has. He keeps moving, leaning on the wall with one hand, finally trying to untangle that cloth from around his horns with the other and winding it hurriedly around his face. The moment he wraps it over his mouth keeping his breathing under control is impossible but it doesn't matter, because it's done. A little optimistic, maybe, thinking he's going to live long enough to care whether he swallowed any tainted blood here, but it's done, and he's still moving-
But he isn't moving quick enough. The darkspawn are here. He shifts his posture - if he's going to die, he's going to do it at least looking like he's on his own two feet - and slings out his axe, battered but whole, grits his teeth, waits until one comes close enough that he can reach it just by pushing off with one foot and he roars, the sound filling the space and spilling outward, out the doorways and into whatever's behind. Into the open air that he's never going to see.
A moment later there's a noise of pain and he's sprawled out on his side on the ground, skin covered in dried blood and deep scrapes and gouges from the fall, side heaving fast with his breaths, hand clenched around the handle of his axe.
It's not the death he wanted. A stupid death born out of being too weak going into this compounded, probably, by a couple dumb little mistakes, downed before he can even fight and dying for nothing at all - but, hey, the silver lining: if no one's around to see it, maybe they'll tell themselves he put up a good fight. He's still, at least, got a couple more swings left to take. He isn't going to waste them.
no subject
And then it's just him. Him, and the dark, and the stone on every side, and the beating of his heart. And the spirit giving him that light.
Be creepier if the thing could talk, anyway. He's probably better off.
He's been hurt worse than this, had to move quicker, without any backup to even hope for. The part of him that's saying this is just as bad as that, that this might be worse, that part of him is full of shit, and what he needs to do is move.
He moves.
Without anyone else to focus on, anybody else to think for, the world goes away. If the Bull was thinking of anything right now, he might say that makes all this easier. Worse, maybe, but easier. Easier to forget that there's anything but the stone beneath his hands, pain throbbing up his ankle and across his skin, in his muscles, the dark in front of him and the unnatural green shining off his hands and his breath quick in his ears. The sound of his leg dragging behind him. There's a rhythm you get into.
The way out takes him by surprise. He realises he's been seeing light for a while and when he looks up and sees the break in the wall it's coming from his heartbeat stutters, he leans against one wall in that way that doesn't really give him any more room but lets him pretend it does, and he breathes. And he breathes.
Dorian. Dorian is waiting for him.
He rolls onto his foot. He leans over on the wall. He stands, and looks at the pile of rubble in front of him, and feels the rest of the world starting to come back.
Rubble's up to his thigh. Nothing to do but try and climb over it.
He leans against the wall, lifts his leg. Tries to still his foot but it swings on his ankle without any input from him, and between leaning against the wall and breathing through the pain he doesn't catch the big stone knocked off the top of the pile before it's falling, the clatter echoing off the walls as it goes.
Might not be a problem. The air is dank here, wet and old, strong enough here to make the darkspawn smell hard to untangle from the rest of it. Hard to tell for certain.
The safe thing would be to turn back.
No one's here to keep it together for; when the thought makes his already tense muscles go stiff, makes his heart gamely try to go faster than it already is, he doesn't try to hide it.
He's here to find a way out, anyway. So he's going to find a way out. He finishes hopping over with his good leg, tries to make it quick enough that he can lean back on the wall, on the rubble, and not put any weight on his bad one.
Good. Next.
He still has to stoop but he can see just enough to tell that a little ways off, the room gets wider. There's a doorway there across the room. More than one, maybe. But behind this doorway there's light. The Bull hunches over against the wall and hops his way toward it.
And then, too late, he hears a noise. The smell starts getting stronger. The Bull starts thinking very quickly.
Getting to the doorway is his only chance. It's a shitty chance, but not letting them surround him might be all he has. He keeps moving, leaning on the wall with one hand, finally trying to untangle that cloth from around his horns with the other and winding it hurriedly around his face. The moment he wraps it over his mouth keeping his breathing under control is impossible but it doesn't matter, because it's done. A little optimistic, maybe, thinking he's going to live long enough to care whether he swallowed any tainted blood here, but it's done, and he's still moving-
But he isn't moving quick enough. The darkspawn are here. He shifts his posture - if he's going to die, he's going to do it at least looking like he's on his own two feet - and slings out his axe, battered but whole, grits his teeth, waits until one comes close enough that he can reach it just by pushing off with one foot and he roars, the sound filling the space and spilling outward, out the doorways and into whatever's behind. Into the open air that he's never going to see.
A moment later there's a noise of pain and he's sprawled out on his side on the ground, skin covered in dried blood and deep scrapes and gouges from the fall, side heaving fast with his breaths, hand clenched around the handle of his axe.
It's not the death he wanted. A stupid death born out of being too weak going into this compounded, probably, by a couple dumb little mistakes, downed before he can even fight and dying for nothing at all - but, hey, the silver lining: if no one's around to see it, maybe they'll tell themselves he put up a good fight. He's still, at least, got a couple more swings left to take. He isn't going to waste them.