Formidable Scuffles limped. Pestilence, who was bringing up the rear of the little group, noticed it and said nothing. The Horsemen (and dog) jumped down from their ledge, each descending at their own pace and ignoring gravity, though Scuffles did flail his arms around a lot as he reached the ground, managing to unbalance himself slightly as he landed and nearly crashing into one of the seven mortals. The seven glanced over at War and Famine, who were marching determinedly towards the tunnel they hoped housed the generator, but made no move to stop them, or even to stop wandering around rearranging bits of rock, candles, and books. “They’re all really old,” whispered Scuffles, limping next to Pestilence. Hilda had pricked her ears up and lifted her head, but she was calm and alert. A tiny wisp of grey smoke curled up from her black nose like the breath of a tiny, sleeping dragon. “Why would you have really old cultists?” “I don’t know,” said Pestilence. He rubbed two fingers against his temple, thinking. “That’s odd. Even for Doom, that’s odd.” They entered the side tunnel, following War and Famine, and it curved around and down in a corkscrew, the walls becoming patchy ivory and greyish-brown as the mineral composition of the rock changed again. “There’s a lot more iron in these walls,” said War, his voice echoing back up the tunnel and making his words overlap and interfere with one another. He slowed his speech down a little to accommodate the acoustics. “This was some kind of inclusion in the original geology; I think we’re circling round where the stairs were. If there’s another shrine down here that’s going to be really confusing.” “I don’t get it,” said Scuffles. He kicked the thick orange cable. “Why would you put the generator so far away? It’s like having your PS4 in the living room and the controls in your bedroom in the basement.” “You make as much sense as Famine does,” said War after a moment. “A what in the where and then why?” “Sis,” said Famine. “He’s formidable, totally teapot. It’s a QTNA amirite. Why put the mitochondria where the organelles can’t see it?” War turned to Pestilence. “Why did only that last part make sense?” he said, his voice almost plaintive. “That last part was more like the old Fam,” said Pestilence. “Regardless of the discussion, the analogy is apt,” said Famine. “Why separate essential paraphernalia without demonstrable cause? The Infanta’s resurrection wouldn’t interfere with the operation of the generator, and if it was simply safety precautions the generator would have been around the first turn in the helix.” They all felt it then; a surge of power around them that streamed past like sitting in water as a school of fish speed by. Light patches raced through the walls, flickering and iridescing. Tiny rainbows formed here and there as crystals broke light into prismatic components and there was a sound like a choir sobbing in musical harmony. The smell of fresh lilacs surged, becoming sweetly overpowering, and then faded away, replaced moments later by lilies and a fresh note like an open lake after rain. “What was that?” said Scuffles, looking around.
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Formidable
Scuffles limped. Pestilence, who was bringing up the rear of the little group, noticed it and said nothing.
The Horsemen (and dog) jumped down from their ledge, each descending at their own pace and ignoring gravity, though Scuffles did flail his arms around a lot as he reached the ground, managing to unbalance himself slightly as he landed and nearly crashing into one of the seven mortals. The seven glanced over at War and Famine, who were marching determinedly towards the tunnel they hoped housed the generator, but made no move to stop them, or even to stop wandering around rearranging bits of rock, candles, and books.
“They’re all really old,” whispered Scuffles, limping next to Pestilence. Hilda had pricked her ears up and lifted her head, but she was calm and alert. A tiny wisp of grey smoke curled up from her black nose like the breath of a tiny, sleeping dragon. “Why would you have really old cultists?”
“I don’t know,” said Pestilence. He rubbed two fingers against his temple, thinking. “That’s odd. Even for Doom, that’s odd.” They entered the side tunnel, following War and Famine, and it curved around and down in a corkscrew, the walls becoming patchy ivory and greyish-brown as the mineral composition of the rock changed again.
“There’s a lot more iron in these walls,” said War, his voice echoing back up the tunnel and making his words overlap and interfere with one another. He slowed his speech down a little to accommodate the acoustics. “This was some kind of inclusion in the original geology; I think we’re circling round where the stairs were. If there’s another shrine down here that’s going to be really confusing.”
“I don’t get it,” said Scuffles. He kicked the thick orange cable. “Why would you put the generator so far away? It’s like having your PS4 in the living room and the controls in your bedroom in the basement.”
“You make as much sense as Famine does,” said War after a moment. “A what in the where and then why?”
“Sis,” said Famine. “He’s formidable, totally teapot. It’s a QTNA amirite. Why put the mitochondria where the organelles can’t see it?”
War turned to Pestilence. “Why did only that last part make sense?” he said, his voice almost plaintive.
“That last part was more like the old Fam,” said Pestilence.
“Regardless of the discussion, the analogy is apt,” said Famine. “Why separate essential paraphernalia without demonstrable cause? The Infanta’s resurrection wouldn’t interfere with the operation of the generator, and if it was simply safety precautions the generator would have been around the first turn in the helix.”
They all felt it then; a surge of power around them that streamed past like sitting in water as a school of fish speed by. Light patches raced through the walls, flickering and iridescing. Tiny rainbows formed here and there as crystals broke light into prismatic components and there was a sound like a choir sobbing in musical harmony. The smell of fresh lilacs surged, becoming sweetly overpowering, and then faded away, replaced moments later by lilies and a fresh note like an open lake after rain.
“What was that?” said Scuffles, looking around.
Greg - I am going to miss these guys when your tale comes to an end. I so enjoy reading their back and forth and their mysterious adventures.
But! Until it does end, I shall happily continue on along side them :)
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