Lemons — Roleplayer Guild

And it had been shaping up to be such a good day for Gaius too.

If truth be told, he'd grown a bit...well, bored, in the Imperial City. Sure, it was nice to spend time with Helena, and of course he knew the value of peacetime, it had been years since he'd really done anything of note. He didn't like to admit it to himself, but he'd grown fond of the accolades, of the admiration earned from teenagers with stars in their eyes, of the feeling of a battle won and a job well done. He'd fought in the Arena a few times and won handily, but there was no pride in it. The Arena didn't host battle-hardened soldiers. It hosted young men and women, hopeful to make a name for themselves. He'd felt a vague guilt over crushing their dreams ever since. 

So it was with a reluctantly light heart that he followed Rhea to the lift, a faint smile straying across his face as he watched the levels pass by. On the whole, everyone in the group seemed as though they'd be worthwhile companions and comrades. Except maybe Durantel,, he added to himself, but it was without barb; he found it difficult to dislike the elf after what he'd said at the campfire last night. If anything, he found him relatable above all else.

Then the lift stopped, and just as his heart plummeted, he felt his stomach rise as it went into freefall. He closed his eyes for just the barest moment, face twisting into a grimace. Of course. Because why wouldn't this happen? He crouched slightly, lowering his center of gravity, and snaked his armored fingers through the gaps in the bars, grabbing on tightly as it plummeted. It would take some time to disentangle them. Thus, he was unable to help at all when the opposite side blew out and a number of people were pulled into the open air. He struggled futilely for a moment with his fingers before stilling; nothing he could do until they reached the bottom. Which, when it came, happened rather explosively for him, slamming him down into the lift floor with the force of his own heavy armor.

By all the Nine above in their sanctity, Gaius thought in as close to a groan as thought could come, everything hurts.

None of that would be visible to anybody else, however. His manner was tight-lipped, and though he spoke with a mote of strain and his face was drawn and tense, he retained as collected a demeanor as he could as he peeled himself off of the floor. He fumbled for his flint and steel and found them absent. Into the water, doubtless, and gone forever. "Is everyone alright?" he coughed out loudly in lieu of providing light, letting his voice echo around. He promptly regretted it a moment later as Rhea spoke four simple words that sent a thrill of terror surging down his spine. 

Falmer. The Snow-Elves. Boogeymen from children's stories in the Empire, only surpassed in that duty by the Ayleid. Through his years in Skyrim, he'd been fortunate to avoid them entirely. Consequently, he was unprepared for the chitinous constructs that were jammed in the lift's gears, and for the acrid stench that wafted from them, forcing him to wrinkle his nose and breath through his mouth to avoid it as best he could. 

He'd heard enough from colleagues in the Legion that had been less fortunate to know the bare minimum of information about them: blindness, reliance on poison and the chitin from their chaurus herds, their total lack of higher thought. He'd known well enough that they had a tendency to spend time around and in Dwemer ruins; anybody who knew the old stories understood that. Still, he'd conveniently forgotten about them when he'd taken this job. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply to calm himself.

You've fought worse than a few blind elves. Pull yourself together. Still, his eyes flicked open, it would be best to avoid shouting that loudly.

He called out again—this time in a much more moderated tone, and with a more even, less quavering voice—"Is everyone alright?" Navigating his way through the dim half-light, largely by touch, he made his way out of the lift, dropping down to the stone platform. He winced as the sabatons of his armor clanked loudly against the hard surface, sending echoes of metallic sound bouncing every which way. He stood dead still for a moment, listening and waiting for any kind of hostile response. Nothing was forthcoming; it was just as silent as before. Just as eerie. He shivered slightly. Despite his training, and the pride he took in being a soldier, there was something about the darkness. Especially when you knew for a fact that something you'd been told since your very early childhood was going to steal you away in the night and eat you if you didn't get to bed was out there somewhere, and very, very real. 

He tried for a headcount, but gave up after only a few seconds; too many people were possibly in the water, and there wasn't nearly enough light, to get a proper number. What was more pressing, he reflected, was the fact that there was no way in Oblivion they were getting back up that shaft anytime soon. Certainly not within the week that they'd had rations allotted for. Always the pragmatist, he focused on this fact and the resolution thereof to distract himself from what might be waiting out there.

He clenched his teeth together, fighting to keep himself in control of his burgeoning panic as he slowly, methodically unslung his shield and drew his sword, letting the familiar rasp of metal in scabbard and the heft of Empire's Aegis on his arm calm his nerves as he peered out into the inscrutable blackness.

"Rhea," he asked quietly, edging closer to her, "do you have any way to communicate with the rest of the excavation? We're going to starve out down here unless they can lower something down for us on a rope, at least until they can get us out of here entirely."

Was that his imagination, or had something twitched out there in the shadows beyond the faint light provided by phosphorescent mushrooms? He couldn't be sure, and that was what made the whole thing so much worse. The darkness was playing tricks on him. The dull ache throbbing through his body wasn't helping matters. Was that a falmer, or a rock outcropping? Was that a poisonous insect with armorlike chitin, creeping up on him to spit venom at him like one of those thrice-damned spiders, or was it another of the inanimate lumps of the material that littered the platform? His breath was shaky, and he belatedly realized that his palms were sweaty enough to make the handle of his sword slick. He whispered a prayer as quietly as he could: "Divines, watch over us. Keep us safe from whatever may befall us."

His only answer was more silence.
Lemons Member

Resident Of The Bargain Bin

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