06-19-2014, 03:47 PM
Next thing, Jaxen was on his back. And not in the fun way. The ninja shoved him out of the line of fire and crouched to shield him. Fine by him!
She cast an ultimatum. “Sstay here and play with the lady or leave with me and live? Five ssecondss.”
He didn't take long to answer that feminine, lisped voice.
"I'm fond of living."
He said.
”Good choicce.”
She replied and darkness was cast across them both. Next thing he knew, the blackness pressed hard from all directions. He couldn't breathe. Iron bands clasped around his throat; his eyeballs bulged from their sockets; and his ear-drums burst like they were bleeding. It was over in a flash, but that couldn't have come soon enough.
Though he squeezed his eyes shut, the ground swayed beneath his hands and knees. He curled an arm around his stomach and moaned, audibly sick. His skin blanched white and sweat wet his brow.
He'd been shot after all. Ninja lady kicked him in the head. He was dead already and his own version of hell was unrelenting nausea. Whatever it was, he stayed where he was, a lump of blue and white cashmere that suddenly seemed too thick for the temperature.
That lisped voice returned. “Are you ill? Ssome are ssometimess.”
He assumed it was a lisp since a check of his ears found them not bleeding after all.
"I've felt better."
He choked back a more visceral answer and reeled back on the heels of his feet. His gaze was finally drawn upward.
Although yet night, there was a glow-cast illuminating their surroundings. Gray was the horizon. Stone, he thought, but smooth as slate marble dominated the view. Shapes moved across some sort of courtyard or what was perhaps a town square. He knew of no such place in Moscow.
The shapes, though. They moved like people, but his brain hadn't caught up to what his eyes were seeing. They moved like something else. Something that wasn't possible.
Every muscle in his body seized hard enough to snap bone. His head whipped this way and that. He turned in a circle. They were everywhere!
No where to run. No where to get away. He couldn't catch his breath. His mouth went dry. They were on him! Crawling up his legs! Under his shirt! He felt their scales slither across his skin!
He cried out in terror, crumpled to a ball and covered his head with his arms. Muffled beneath, the canticle of a desperate prayer rose through the rocking. "It's not real. It's not real."
If he were of more reasonable senses, he might have been concerned he was shot in the head and bleeding out on the ground somewhere and this was his welcome to hell.
If only that were true. He'd prefer the trauma of a head wound to hallucinating about snake people. "It's not real."
She cast an ultimatum. “Sstay here and play with the lady or leave with me and live? Five ssecondss.”
He didn't take long to answer that feminine, lisped voice.
"I'm fond of living."
He said.
”Good choicce.”
She replied and darkness was cast across them both. Next thing he knew, the blackness pressed hard from all directions. He couldn't breathe. Iron bands clasped around his throat; his eyeballs bulged from their sockets; and his ear-drums burst like they were bleeding. It was over in a flash, but that couldn't have come soon enough.
Though he squeezed his eyes shut, the ground swayed beneath his hands and knees. He curled an arm around his stomach and moaned, audibly sick. His skin blanched white and sweat wet his brow.
He'd been shot after all. Ninja lady kicked him in the head. He was dead already and his own version of hell was unrelenting nausea. Whatever it was, he stayed where he was, a lump of blue and white cashmere that suddenly seemed too thick for the temperature.
That lisped voice returned. “Are you ill? Ssome are ssometimess.”
He assumed it was a lisp since a check of his ears found them not bleeding after all.
"I've felt better."
He choked back a more visceral answer and reeled back on the heels of his feet. His gaze was finally drawn upward.
Although yet night, there was a glow-cast illuminating their surroundings. Gray was the horizon. Stone, he thought, but smooth as slate marble dominated the view. Shapes moved across some sort of courtyard or what was perhaps a town square. He knew of no such place in Moscow.
The shapes, though. They moved like people, but his brain hadn't caught up to what his eyes were seeing. They moved like something else. Something that wasn't possible.
Every muscle in his body seized hard enough to snap bone. His head whipped this way and that. He turned in a circle. They were everywhere!
No where to run. No where to get away. He couldn't catch his breath. His mouth went dry. They were on him! Crawling up his legs! Under his shirt! He felt their scales slither across his skin!
He cried out in terror, crumpled to a ball and covered his head with his arms. Muffled beneath, the canticle of a desperate prayer rose through the rocking. "It's not real. It's not real."
If he were of more reasonable senses, he might have been concerned he was shot in the head and bleeding out on the ground somewhere and this was his welcome to hell.
If only that were true. He'd prefer the trauma of a head wound to hallucinating about snake people. "It's not real."