[ He's there, he's there, matching intensity shot for shot. Grabbing Mace by the front of his robe and reeling, teeth clicking once uncomfortably, tasting his mouth and the blood and the dirt inside of it. Fuck, fuck.
We almost fucking died man, we're always almost dying. That thing was more terrifying than dying.
That thing - whatever it was - god, he's imagining what it must have been. What it must have looked like. The horror of it, and his imagination's ripping up amalgamations of body parts and expressions he's seen in theological books and horror movies. He's imagining gnarled off-human features, he's imagining something that sounds cartoonish to describe but that, in his head, is reminiscent of Lovecraftian horror in that it would break you just by looking at it. Drive you out of your mind for real, for good.
He's imagining that it takes you and it breaks you and it turns you into one of those eternal voices whispering in the woods.
Mace draws back. Mouths words that Ian knows the shape of because holy fuck has he been too drunk to hear or surrounded by too much music or the person talking to him was too drunk to make voice words but the legend of montezuma will fucking live on forever won't it?
If they get out of here, he's writing a thank-you letter to the ceo of the company.
Maybe Mace can make out what he breathes back:
Fuck yes.
Okay.
Recentered, the taste of Mace in his mouth, he turns his attention to making socks. Easy. Jeans immediately after, because the cold and the branches, the thorns, the rough bark, if they have to run or climb that bath robe ain't gonna cut it.
By the time he's done, the silence in his ears has been replaced with a constant tinnitus-style ringing. He doesn't know if that's better or worse. ]
no subject
We almost fucking died man, we're always almost dying.
That thing was more terrifying than dying.
That thing - whatever it was - god, he's imagining what it must have been. What it must have looked like. The horror of it, and his imagination's ripping up amalgamations of body parts and expressions he's seen in theological books and horror movies. He's imagining gnarled off-human features, he's imagining something that sounds cartoonish to describe but that, in his head, is reminiscent of Lovecraftian horror in that it would break you just by looking at it. Drive you out of your mind for real, for good.
He's imagining that it takes you and it breaks you and it turns you into one of those eternal voices whispering in the woods.
Mace draws back. Mouths words that Ian knows the shape of because holy fuck has he been too drunk to hear or surrounded by too much music or the person talking to him was too drunk to make voice words but the legend of montezuma will fucking live on forever won't it?
If they get out of here, he's writing a thank-you letter to the ceo of the company.
Maybe Mace can make out what he breathes back:
Fuck yes.
Okay.
Recentered, the taste of Mace in his mouth, he turns his attention to making socks. Easy. Jeans immediately after, because the cold and the branches, the thorns, the rough bark, if they have to run or climb that bath robe ain't gonna cut it.
By the time he's done, the silence in his ears has been replaced with a constant tinnitus-style ringing. He doesn't know if that's better or worse. ]