John growls low agreement that he won't make the same mistake twice. He has yet to fully decide which mistake that was: facing the King, or trusting Kayne, or losing Arthur in the first place. He does not plan to repeat any of those. He certainly does not plan to wait patiently in this pit.
From above and distantly comes the shuffle of a jailer, a damp and dragging bulk. If the timing is strangely convenient, John gives no notice of this: he does not react with anything but steely determination. He rises opposite Daemon, steps back to press his shoulders to the dirt wall of the pit, jaw set.
"We can drink once we've won." There is a grim certainty to his tone, as the plodding steps draw closer. "Fuck the odds. Good luck."
In the mist above, something moves. It appears first as a rounded, hulking shape, thick-set arms and shoulders in the fog. The proportions are wrong: the movements are inhuman. A long pole of some unearthly metal, dark and iridescent, descends in a blind and prodding path down into the pit. At its tip is a hook for the bucket.
On the other end is the jailer. If Daemon heaves it down, only then will he have a clear view of their enemy: broad and toadlike, faceless but for the wet churning of tentacles.
If he wanted to keep rationalising this as some kind of trial, the timing certainly seems to support it. It's in the back of his mind as Daemon ducks quickly to press against the wall at the first hint of movement from above, and for a moment, he glances skyward suspiciously. Was someone watching after all?
His eyes refocus on the strange metal hook probing in the gloom for the bucket instead, and they follow it to the decidedly inhuman shape shrouded in the mists at its origin. Whatever it is, it's big and cumbersome, which he hopes might be used to their advantage.
As the hook nears its goal, Daemon shoots one last look at John before he darts across to grab the pole with both hands. Treating it like a spear, he rams it forward hard until he feels meat and keeps pushing even when the metal bites painfully into his hands with the effort. He hopes it's hurting the jailer just as much, at least; if it starts making unpleasant noises, he'll assume he's doing it right.
"Get ready," Daemon rasps through grit teeth as he feels resistance at the other end of the pole. He assumes it is the jailer, intending to push it away or pull it back in — it doesn't matter. He stops stabbing and gives one sharp tug instead that sends him stumbling backwards over the stupid bucket.
Suddenly jerked toward the pit's rim, the thing up above teeters on edge precariously, scrambling to find footing as a spray of gravel dislodges and tumbles down.
"Just fall, you—"
More pebbles slide out from underfoot, and Daemon watches as the top-heavy lump pitches forward, and gravity does the rest to bring it crashing down to the stone floor with them. Without the mists to obscure it any longer, Daemon is somewhere between horrified and revolted at the sight of the misshapen creature.
Knock it down and bash its head in. That seemed plausible until... right now. Did it even have a head?
"Alright," he says, getting back up and trying not to look disturbed by this. "Your turn."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
From above and distantly comes the shuffle of a jailer, a damp and dragging bulk. If the timing is strangely convenient, John gives no notice of this: he does not react with anything but steely determination. He rises opposite Daemon, steps back to press his shoulders to the dirt wall of the pit, jaw set.
"We can drink once we've won." There is a grim certainty to his tone, as the plodding steps draw closer. "Fuck the odds. Good luck."
In the mist above, something moves. It appears first as a rounded, hulking shape, thick-set arms and shoulders in the fog. The proportions are wrong: the movements are inhuman. A long pole of some unearthly metal, dark and iridescent, descends in a blind and prodding path down into the pit. At its tip is a hook for the bucket.
On the other end is the jailer. If Daemon heaves it down, only then will he have a clear view of their enemy: broad and toadlike, faceless but for the wet churning of tentacles.
no subject
His eyes refocus on the strange metal hook probing in the gloom for the bucket instead, and they follow it to the decidedly inhuman shape shrouded in the mists at its origin. Whatever it is, it's big and cumbersome, which he hopes might be used to their advantage.
As the hook nears its goal, Daemon shoots one last look at John before he darts across to grab the pole with both hands. Treating it like a spear, he rams it forward hard until he feels meat and keeps pushing even when the metal bites painfully into his hands with the effort. He hopes it's hurting the jailer just as much, at least; if it starts making unpleasant noises, he'll assume he's doing it right.
"Get ready," Daemon rasps through grit teeth as he feels resistance at the other end of the pole. He assumes it is the jailer, intending to push it away or pull it back in — it doesn't matter. He stops stabbing and gives one sharp tug instead that sends him stumbling backwards over the stupid bucket.
Suddenly jerked toward the pit's rim, the thing up above teeters on edge precariously, scrambling to find footing as a spray of gravel dislodges and tumbles down.
"Just fall, you—"
More pebbles slide out from underfoot, and Daemon watches as the top-heavy lump pitches forward, and gravity does the rest to bring it crashing down to the stone floor with them. Without the mists to obscure it any longer, Daemon is somewhere between horrified and revolted at the sight of the misshapen creature.
Knock it down and bash its head in. That seemed plausible until... right now. Did it even have a head?
"Alright," he says, getting back up and trying not to look disturbed by this. "Your turn."