bringspeopletogether | [milliways] search and rescue

Chuck's half-listening to Alistair as he continues forward, swinging his walking stick through the underbrush.

It's weirdly quiet in here, but Chuck's not that great at weather. Like, birds wouldn't like this snow anymore than he does, right? They're probably all hiding or hibernating or whatever.

At the silence on Alistair's end, he turns back to face him, still moving. "You o--" his ankle hits something cold and thin and he falls forward hard.

"Spiders?" he whispers, at the weird ice-net he's landed himself in. "Spiders!" he shouts as a warning, trying to scramble free.

A faint crunch comes from up ahead, as of some massive foot settling very slowly into the snow, and another creak.

That's ... that's pretty definitely not Nepeta.

In Alistair's experience, when most grown men yell spiders! in that kind of voice, they're not talking about the little ones that stick to dusty corners.

Those ponderous, unsettling footsteps of something very, very large only confirm his suspicions.

Crunch.

Slowly, Alistair unshoulders his pack and lowers it to the snow, not once taking his eyes off the path ahead. A quiet shing follows as he unsheathes both daggers. It's -- well, it's been longer than he'd like since he's worked with anything but a sword and board, but it shouldn't be too bad. Just stab with the pointy bit, right? That part hasn't changed.

Alistair settles into a fighting stance, his breath steaming in the cold.

Crunch.

Chuck pulls himself out of the web, limping slightly until he gets the hard threads hooked around his boot off. He ignores the way the threads have bitten into the hard rubber, leaving slices and scars.

The web vibrates, again, and an entirely different set of legs pull themselves onto it, curious to see what it's caught.

Chuck doesn't know it's likely a juvenile, its armor not yet hardened fully into thick spikes, all he knows is --

Well.

"Your web sucks," he tells the spider, low, but he's grinning, all fear faded into a sort of easy readiness. "It isn't even sticky."

Edited 2016-03-03 06:52 (UTC)

The spider inches forward, off of the web and onto the snow, and raises its forelegs in what might be a threat display. It's about the size of a Shetland pony, legs maybe the thickness of Chuck's wrist; horrifyingly huge for a spider (even for an Australian born and raised), but not really that big as monsters go (especially for someone used to fighting kaiju).

... The much, much larger shadow approaching from between the trees up ahead? Rather more alarming.

Edited 2016-03-03 21:56 (UTC)

At first Chuck thought it was going to attack. When it drops onto the snow, he sneaks a glance Alistair's way. That thing looks way worse, and he can't let Ysalwen's friend get killed.

"All right," he says, and backs up away from the creepy spider, "see? I'm going. Calm the fuck down."

In a brief, vivid flash, Alistair remembers Lyna guiding them past that high dragon's lair, all of them barely daring to breathe for fear of waking it. Chuck's probably got the right of it: preemptive attacks aren't always worth it. Not when you aren't sure if you can win.

Buuuuut it's probably too late for that now, isn't it.

The next crunch sounds a lot louder. Through the haze of ice, it almost looks like the trees are shifting. One lifts, and falls straight down: crunch.

Alistair looks up. And up.

"Oh, that's not good," he mutters, wide-eyed.

The adult spider towers over the two humans, armored legs creaking as they bend enough to bring a cluster of glinting eyes to focus on Alistair.

The smaller spider spreads its forelegs again, bringing to bear what might be a set of spinnerets, except --

(This isn't good either.)

Except that what comes out, instead of a stream of webbing fluid, is a thin jet of icy air.

Chuck's not used to the monsters being taller than him. Somewhere in his head, he still feels like Striker Eureka, 2000 tons of metal and advanced engineering. It helps.

And they are monsters -- intelligent. Spiders don't chase you, or have bloody ice magic.

He shifts his grip on the stick, so he's holding it almost like a sword, and charges the juvenile. He's aiming for between the two upraised arms. For the eyes, but he's just as willing to snap one of the legs if it blocks.

Edited 2016-03-04 19:57 (UTC)

This is probably the point where Lyna would start grinning, if she were here. Alistair can't help it: he grins a little, too, like he's about to let the dragon-sized bug in on a little secret.

(Though...seriously, when he started thinking about dragons, that was not the Maker's cue to churn out a spider the same size as one. Dammit.)

"No, it's all right," he says, quite pleasantly. "Come closer, get a better look, here -- "

And in one swift motion, he slashes both daggers across the spider's eyes.

Two things happen almost simultaneously:

The smaller spider whips one claw around and seizes the end of Chuck's stick, clamping down on it solidly.

And the bigger one jerks back, letting out a whistling shriek of pain, crystalline ichor leaking from its eye cluster.

As though in answer, the wind gusts sharply, lashing both humans with stinging snow.

Chuck doesn't let the interference stop him, using his momentum to carry the stick forward. He probably won't reach the eyes but what the fuck, nobody likes having their limbs forced behind their heads, right? Spidercrab things likely included.

He squints against the harsh wind.

Alistair's eyes narrow, but it's not just in reaction to the wind. Giant spiders, all right, that's actually kind of normal for him -- it's the very-coincidental snow blast that isn't.

Magic ice spiders. Yeah. That's a new one.

With barely a moment's hesitation, he dives forward, trying to get his daggers into the spider's belly before it raises itself out of reach. If that earns him another blast of snow to the face? Then he'll know for sure.

And there is, indeed, another blast of snow to the face -- this time not from the swirling storm, but directly from the spinneret-looking spot on the vast spider's abdomen. It's clearly a move of flailing defense as it reacts to the unexpected eye injury; the creature is still staggering slightly, which at its size is not necessarily reassuring.

Chuck's spider, meanwhile, clings to the stick even as its leg is forced backward -- and pays for it almost immediately, as the leg gives way with a sharp bitter snap like a green stick. Its shriek is a thin wail in comparison to the full-grown spider's bellow, but still loud enough to shiver the eardrums.

That's the thing about momentum -- it doesn't stop working when you no longer need it. With the abrupt loss of resistance, Chuck careens forwards. His feet slide in the snow as he attempts to stop, the heavy weight still attached to the end of his stick unbalancing him.

He drops it too late, falling and sliding underneath the spider, head thumping against its abdomen as he does.

"Bloody fucking--" he covers his head and neck with his arms, and tries to assess his potential weapons through the noise.

Alistair's head turns at the shout, just enough to get a glimpse of Chuck and the baby spider. (This has the extra bonus of deflecting some of the full-grown spider's blast. Only half his face gets smacked with a bunch of snow instead of all of it! Take that, giant terrifying magical ice bug!)

It's more to place them on his mental map of the battlefield than anything. He's taking Chuck at his word: the man can take care of himself, and -- aside from the other obvious reason they're out here -- Alistair getting back alive is the top priority of their little group.

If he thinks about that too much, it's really not going to sit well with him.

...If he thinks about that too much, it's also going to end with the giant spider crashing down on him, so let's dive out of the way and stab a few more legs while we're at it! Maybe if Alistair cripples this beast enough, he can toss one of his daggers to Chuck.

Alistair's daggers don't do a lot of damage to the spider's armored legs, but by luck or design he does manage to carve a gash in one spot between armor-plates. Ichor leaks out and freezes almost instantly, and the spider reacts by swinging another leg at the troublesome little human, claws splayed.

The baby spider, meanwhile, is doing its damnedest to bite Chuck on the spine. Unfortunately for it (and fortunately for Chuck), there are far too many layers of fabric and fur in the way.

Chuck debates the flare gun, but he doesn't want to waste it on this spider. Instead he grabs the radio, turning it in his hand so it's sharp edge forward.

Keeping his head down, he reaches out and grabs high up onto one of the legs, smashing the radio into it.

At the same time --

WHUMPH.

The baby spider's shriek almost drowns out Alistair's yelp as the blow connects. He goes flying, tumbling end-over-end through a snowdrift. Boots skidding a bit on the ice, he scrambles back to his feet as fast as he can, ignoring the ache in his ribs.

"What?" he yells at the spider. "Do you want to hit me to death or freeze me to death? Make up your mind!"

Back into the fray he goes.

Whatever the relation between the baby spider and the adult, there doesn't seem to be much going on in the way of parental protectiveness; the bigger spider ignores the little one's cry and goes right back at Alistair, this time lunging to bite.

The smaller spider, with two of its legs injured and apparently facing an unbiteable foe, tries firing its freezing blast at Chuck again. It's colder this time, and sharper; snow crystallizes out of the air in its path, and frost forms on the edges of Chuck's outermost coat.

Chuck tears the injured leg off as he rolls out from the spider, gagging at the sound it makes.

He can't help feeling bad -- this thing is small for its species, and unprotected, and in pain -- but it's trying to kill him, and depending on how its magic works it might be able to. He smacks it hard against the face with the flat of its own leg.

"Just go," he yells, furious, raising the walkie talkie as well. If it doesn't retreat, he'll kill it.

Edited 2016-03-06 04:21 (UTC)

Ichor has frozen up over the stump of the torn-away leg, and over the splintered parts of the broken one, but it's still dribbling out of the leg Chuck's holding. His blow leaves a splatter of it across the spider's face, and that seems to be the last straw.

Slowly, limping and glaring balefully, the spider backs away.

If only the same could be said of the bigger spider.

Alistair twists away in time to avoid being bitten, but going on the offensive proves a bit trickier. A longsword can cut through nearly anything if you swing it hard enough. Daggers? Not so much. Trying to aim so precisely at the little gaps in the spider's legs slows him down more than he'd like.

Nothing for it but to keep hacking away, though.

Chuck keeps an eye on it just long enough to be sure it's going, then turns towards Alistair and the massive spider. He clips the walkie talkie back into his jacket, and double checks the location of the flare gun.

He's got no real weapons to fight with, since the spider dragged his stick away, and he drops the leg he's holding -- it'll be useless against the thick spiked armor on the legs of the older spider. He's useless to Alistair on the ground.

He adjusts his gloves -- happy he's wearing two pairs, though not sure they'll help -- and sighs. Well, it's time for something really stupid.

Chuck jogs towards the side of the spider Alistair's not currently thrashing -- with a little luck, and the right hand hold, he might be able to climb this thing.

There are definitely places that could qualify as handholds, in the armor plating on the spider's legs. And they're even relatively stable right now, the rear legs planted firmly to free the front legs to strike.

It doesn't even seem to notice Chuck's approach at first, as it aims another swinging blow at Alistair.

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