Skar watched the mud with a curious detachment. Looked a bit funny in the head, this one, very nearly talking to itself at one point, staring off into space… And its mercurial moods were baffling him, first it looked terrified of him, and now it was casual.
And now it was asking for a knife? He quickly decided he didn’t like the way this conversation – if you could call it that – was turning, but frack, what was the worst that could happen? It killed him. Big deal. If he failed this, a fate far worse than simple death awaited him, as far as he was concerned… Mutely, he produced a short, keen knife, its wooden handle worn smooth with age, and offered it.
There was a hideous squeal from somewhere not far distant, making him wince. “Uh… maybe vacatin’ the premises would be a good idea ‘bout now…” he managed, through a suddenly constricted throat. Although its pack-mate still wailed and lunged at the lead, scenting blood, one of the screamers – the runt – was looking considerably less agitated than it had done before, content just to lean into the lead, whining faintly.
Oh damn, damn… this ain’t goin’ ter be fun… He could hear footsteps, by now, gaze glued to the corridor the Screamer had vanished down, waiting for that creature to appear, only half-aware of the mud by his side, if that…
[ May 04, 2001: Message edited by: Teal ]
|