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Who| Punchy, Tim, and Tim!
What| A sort of rescue, then a group encounter with achupacabra reptiroo.
Where| Desert arena.
When| Right after nightfall!
Warnings/Notes| I'll update as they come up- none yet!
In hindsight, this was a bad idea. He should have kept to the plan to just head for the hills. Had he done that, this night might now seem as dark as it did, the dangers not running through his head as acutely. He would have had some defense at his back, and that would mean a world of relief when literal back stabbing was what he was most worried about. --scratch that. Even with having to turn his head to glance over his shoulders ever other minute, it wasn't like there was that annoying, god-awful music making it impossible to hear something coming up behind him. He was more worried about how parched his throat was and how heavy his head felt. He had thought he could reach the shelter of the mountains before night fell, but that was obviously wrong. Keep the big heap of rocks to your right, he figured, and go explore and map out the terrain for yourself. He had found prairie dogs galore and a good grassy patch...
(...was he really going to have to eat grass...? Nope. No. Not right now, at least!)
And now the mountains were still somewhere off to his right, but kind of not so visible anymore, and Tim thought for a second that it was a good thing the sun had gone down because the air was beginning to cool and it felt great against his sweat soaked self. The moon's light hardly illuminated the path ahead of him but still Tim could make do and catch the quick glint of what he assumes to be a scorpion scurrying past. No need to step on the thing, no way to tell if it's poison-packed, and so he steps over the it and the rock its now perched on. He swallows, tries to ignore how tired he actually felt-- and then he hears some rustling, you know, that real generic sound of something approaching. A quick scan revealed nothing but a chilly gust of wind that made him shiver, and it must have been the sand rattling against itself and the tumbleweeds tumbling.
Then he realizes, belatedly, that his hair's standing on end for another reason. Tim stops in his tracks, and straightens up stiffly and keeps his ears and eyes keen. Nothing. So then how is he going to die? This game is a death match-- and he has nothing to defend himself with. No bo staff, no small flash grenades, no smokescreen, no wire.
But just behind him, he'd passed a sizable rock. Kind of silly, but he backtracks, takes special care to give the scorpion king one very respectable and well angled, uh, nudge with his boot to get him off what Tim's now deemed his weapon until he finds something better. It fits in his hand, so it shouldn't be too burdensome to carry. With a huff, he straightens up after having bent down to pick it up. And it must be the moon again glinting off of some more far away rocks, because he sees a pair of shining things that hadn't been ahead of him before. And they can't be rocks, because. They're kind of multiplying. Two, four, eight. Coming closer and snarling. Uh. Then he sees that to his left there's a dead hare. Their dinner. --well, before he showed up.
"I promise I wasn't going to eat it."
Quick, Drake, what have you learned about dealing with wild animals in death arenas? One step, two, three back, never lowering his eyes from the glowing yellow and greens stalking closer.
"I'll just back away slowly and let you get back to your thing."
The funny thing is, there's nowhere to run and he's not stupid enough to believe he can outrun a coyote pack. Gee, he hopes they're not rabid. The night gets a hella lot colder when there's a clear yip and a bushy tail up and some jaws gaping. He can take on four dogs, he tells himself. He has a rock. And good training. Then there's a mountain of fur racing towards him and Tim takes a stance. And he really does wish he was a few inches bigger.
What| A sort of rescue, then a group encounter with a
Where| Desert arena.
When| Right after nightfall!
Warnings/Notes| I'll update as they come up- none yet!
In hindsight, this was a bad idea. He should have kept to the plan to just head for the hills. Had he done that, this night might now seem as dark as it did, the dangers not running through his head as acutely. He would have had some defense at his back, and that would mean a world of relief when literal back stabbing was what he was most worried about. --scratch that. Even with having to turn his head to glance over his shoulders ever other minute, it wasn't like there was that annoying, god-awful music making it impossible to hear something coming up behind him. He was more worried about how parched his throat was and how heavy his head felt. He had thought he could reach the shelter of the mountains before night fell, but that was obviously wrong. Keep the big heap of rocks to your right, he figured, and go explore and map out the terrain for yourself. He had found prairie dogs galore and a good grassy patch...
(...was he really going to have to eat grass...? Nope. No. Not right now, at least!)
And now the mountains were still somewhere off to his right, but kind of not so visible anymore, and Tim thought for a second that it was a good thing the sun had gone down because the air was beginning to cool and it felt great against his sweat soaked self. The moon's light hardly illuminated the path ahead of him but still Tim could make do and catch the quick glint of what he assumes to be a scorpion scurrying past. No need to step on the thing, no way to tell if it's poison-packed, and so he steps over the it and the rock its now perched on. He swallows, tries to ignore how tired he actually felt-- and then he hears some rustling, you know, that real generic sound of something approaching. A quick scan revealed nothing but a chilly gust of wind that made him shiver, and it must have been the sand rattling against itself and the tumbleweeds tumbling.
Then he realizes, belatedly, that his hair's standing on end for another reason. Tim stops in his tracks, and straightens up stiffly and keeps his ears and eyes keen. Nothing. So then how is he going to die? This game is a death match-- and he has nothing to defend himself with. No bo staff, no small flash grenades, no smokescreen, no wire.
But just behind him, he'd passed a sizable rock. Kind of silly, but he backtracks, takes special care to give the scorpion king one very respectable and well angled, uh, nudge with his boot to get him off what Tim's now deemed his weapon until he finds something better. It fits in his hand, so it shouldn't be too burdensome to carry. With a huff, he straightens up after having bent down to pick it up. And it must be the moon again glinting off of some more far away rocks, because he sees a pair of shining things that hadn't been ahead of him before. And they can't be rocks, because. They're kind of multiplying. Two, four, eight. Coming closer and snarling. Uh. Then he sees that to his left there's a dead hare. Their dinner. --well, before he showed up.
"I promise I wasn't going to eat it."
Quick, Drake, what have you learned about dealing with wild animals in death arenas? One step, two, three back, never lowering his eyes from the glowing yellow and greens stalking closer.
"I'll just back away slowly and let you get back to your thing."
The funny thing is, there's nowhere to run and he's not stupid enough to believe he can outrun a coyote pack. Gee, he hopes they're not rabid. The night gets a hella lot colder when there's a clear yip and a bushy tail up and some jaws gaping. He can take on four dogs, he tells himself. He has a rock. And good training. Then there's a mountain of fur racing towards him and Tim takes a stance. And he really does wish he was a few inches bigger.