Alistair (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bringspeopletogether) wrote2016-02-24 02:28 pm
bringspeopletogether) wrote2016-02-24 02:28 pm
[milliways] search and rescue
Okay. So. First night in a tavern at the supposed end of the world and he's about to go running into a blizzard to rescue two men he doesn't know.
This is, by far, the most normal part of Alistair's very bizarre evening.
When he asks for equipment, the enchanted bar heaps up piles of furs, three strange lanterns with little clear orbs where a candle would go, a long length of rope, some sort of canvas backpack with the letters SAR stitched on one side, and what looks like a bright red, misshapen crossbow. He frowns at it as he gets to work shrugging on all the necessary layers.
"Do you know what that is?" he asks Chuck.
This is, by far, the most normal part of Alistair's very bizarre evening.
When he asks for equipment, the enchanted bar heaps up piles of furs, three strange lanterns with little clear orbs where a candle would go, a long length of rope, some sort of canvas backpack with the letters SAR stitched on one side, and what looks like a bright red, misshapen crossbow. He frowns at it as he gets to work shrugging on all the necessary layers.
"Do you know what that is?" he asks Chuck.
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Where...it promptly gets stuck.
Frozen over, caught too tightly between the spider's armor, whatever -- it ends with Alistair getting dragged quite a few feet father than expected, swearing loudly and creatively the whole while, before he can let go of the hilt. And now he's only got one dagger. Fantastic.
With a frustrated growl, he grips it in both hands and swings as hard as if he were carrying a fifty-pound broadsword.
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He's about halfway up the leg when Alistair starts swearing. He freezes for a moment, considering.
Swearing's probably good, right? It means he's not dead yet!
Chuck resumes climbing, as quickly as he can without losing grip. It's not as quick as he'd like.
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Still moving fast enough that Alistair can't afford to let his guard down, though, if he doesn't want to get hit with another blast of ice.
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Alistair's eyebrows fly up. Chuck gets a fleeting grin -- as they might say in another world, he likes the cut of your jib, sir -- before he yells and doubles down on his attacks, hard. Anything he can do to keep the spider's attention on him? He's going to do it.
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Up above the body of the spider, the wind is really fucking cold. Chuck squints against it, and down to the top of the spider's body. He could climb across the knee-- for lack of a better word-- and down, but the spiked armor would no longer be pointing against gravity. Still, it's probably better than jumping across to its surface. It'd definitely notice that.
He makes the transition from the part of the leg going up-to-the-knee to the part of the leg going down-to-the-body easily enough. Actually keeping his grip when the spider moves -- well, it's a good thing some ShatterDomes use fireman's poles.
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And then begins flailing the leg Chuck is clinging to, trying frantically to dislodge him.
HELP, HELP, THERE'S A HUMAN ON ME, GET IT OFF.no subject
Okay. He can figure this out. Just have to think.
(If the flailing doesn't stop soon, he might get sick.)
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"Hey!" Alistair yells. "Hey! Down here! I'm much more annoying and delicious, ask anyone!"
He punctuates the last by ramming his blade straight through the nearest spider leg.
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The leg Chuck's clinging to is jerking and trembling, but the concerted flailing of a moment ago has -- briefly -- stopped.
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He pulls off his outer gloves with his teeth, for grip, and tucks them into his jacket. Then he jumps for it, fingers gripping into the spider's icy fur as he pulls himself up.
"Ugh!" He says, involuntarily. He starts to climb.
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He spits out a mouthful of ice. (Great, now his face and his tongue are half-numb.) Both hands wrap fast around the dagger's hilt; there's nothing but slick snow to brace his feet on, but Alistair does his damndest anyway, teeth gritted as he throws all his weight into getting the blade unstuck.
"Give -- that -- back -- "
For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a slow creeeeak scrapes along the air.
The ice finally gives way with a snap, sending Alistair reeling backward. "Hah!" he exclaims, triumphant.
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"-- n -- with Dejah, this -- Park -- have both m--".
Chuck doesn't feel relieved. Really. Why would he? He clings tighter, shifting his shoulder to block the wind as he depresses the button with his cheek. "Thanks," he says, tone terse but with an attempt at clarity "we're --" the spider bucks, and he yelps. After he's regained his hand hold: "kind of busy. Out!"
He's going to get closer, and shoot this bloody thing in is ugly face.
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And Alistair is treated to the rare sight of a snow spider trying to twist one of its legs up over its own abdomen to strike at something on its back.
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If that means continuing to nip at the spider's ankles like a tiny, ineffectual, highly obnoxious puppy? So be it.
The creature's planted two of its legs closer together than the rest. It's not putting a lot of weight on the leg that's still got Alistair's other dagger embedded in it. With one leg off the ground, that means if Alistair quickly sheathes his dagger and gets a running start --
"Keep a tight hold!" he bellows up to Chuck.
Right before he cannonballs into the two closely-placed limbs, hoping to upset the spider's balance enough to make it stop clawing at Chuck.
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This isn't exactly where he wanted to be -- still a good foot and a half from the eyes -- but what better opportunity can you have than your opponent already off balance, most eyes on you?
He pulls the flare gun out, lines it up, and pulls. He closes his eyes as he does so. It's not an exact science, obviously, but at this distance it shoots brightly past half of the eyes before landing with some force (still burning ferociously) a smidge below and to the left of center.
He's tucked against the spider's body, eyes closed and trying to hit the happy medium between holding tight and keeping loose in case of a fall, but still -- he grins.
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Alistair might be in greater danger of injury now than when it was trying to hit him on purpose.
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One leg kicks him in the shoulder. He winces, stumbles back, then charges forward, fumbling to get the dagger back out of its sheath.
Through the black dots swirling through his line of vision, he sees the light of the flare refracting off eight shiny, half-gouged spheres.
With a final roar, Alistair lunges, driving the dagger into the spider's face all the way to the hilt.
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He opens his eyes, rolls to look at Alistair, and breathes a laugh as he stands up.
"You all right?" Chuck shakes snow out of his sleeves.
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"Well," brightly, as he grabs hold of the dagger hilt again, "that was -- oof," he hauls it out of the already half-frozen corpse, "that was invigorating. Let's not do it again any time soon."
He'll stick with the regular variety of giant spiders, thanks. Alistair sheathes the dagger and goes to retrieve his other one from the spider's leg.
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Unfortunately ... circumstances might not make it the best suggestion.
Creak.
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"Give me a dagger and get out of here," he says, handing Alistair the walkie talkie. "Push the button to talk."
He's dead, Alistair is alive. This is going to be a real fucking pain, but what is he going to do -- die?
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Granted, Alistair says this even as he's trading one dagger for the walkie-talkie, but -- "I'm fine, I'm not going to give up now."
Dead or not, abandoning Chuck to fight the next spider alone is...it's just not going to happen. You don't do that.
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Bright blue claws flash, the spider screes, and a flurry of snow obscures a sudden whirlwind of rapid motion.
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"Yeah! Nepeta!"
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