There's a wreath or something around here somewhere, that's the latest from the naiads at the spring, sweet-faced and laughing with their dryad friends gossiping in the glade. Supposedly it's a ticket out of this jungle labyrinth and Leon had an idea of gathering as many of his fellow expats as he could find so they could turn it in at once, get them all out on a technicality. It's the closest thing to a plan he's had in... years, probably.
Except Leon has long since been separated from those he found, along with his bottle green tailcoat and his cravat. He's since rolled up his starched white dress shirt up to his elbows and loosened the lacings from throat to heart, his embroidered white waistcoat flutters open as he hacks at the foliage with the knife he's been keeping sheathed at the small of his back. Formerly white silk stockings are stained from mud and dirt and shredded foliage, and his shoes will probably never be suitable for wear in polite company ever again. The off-white breeches and the rest are altogether completely uncomfortable in this unrelenting humidity.
Thankfully, those springs and pools he's encountered just when he's started to get dizzy or thirsty haven't been unfit to drink from (even if the girls living near them can get really friendly). The flicker of iridescent wings in a cloud rising up through the green canopy draws his attention and he pauses, breath puffing, to drag the back of his hand across his sweating brow.
Not much sunlight penetrates the thick canopy overhead, but the little that does seems to dance with swirls of what seem like fine dust. Leon is struck suddenly by an urge, his nose wrinkling—
He sneezes. Ugh.
When Leon hears something drop heavily to the ground behind him he's swift to wheel around, lowering his center of gravity, his knife sticky with plant sap but ready. For a moment, Leon doubts his eyes, because that hulking shadow rising to his full height looks familiar in ways his mind pulls sharply away from, unwilling to acknowledge, directly at odds with the contrariwise compulsion to pin all his attention on him.
no subject
Except Leon has long since been separated from those he found, along with his bottle green tailcoat and his cravat. He's since rolled up his starched white dress shirt up to his elbows and loosened the lacings from throat to heart, his embroidered white waistcoat flutters open as he hacks at the foliage with the knife he's been keeping sheathed at the small of his back. Formerly white silk stockings are stained from mud and dirt and shredded foliage, and his shoes will probably never be suitable for wear in polite company ever again. The off-white breeches and the rest are altogether completely uncomfortable in this unrelenting humidity.
Thankfully, those springs and pools he's encountered just when he's started to get dizzy or thirsty haven't been unfit to drink from (even if the girls living near them can get really friendly). The flicker of iridescent wings in a cloud rising up through the green canopy draws his attention and he pauses, breath puffing, to drag the back of his hand across his sweating brow.
Not much sunlight penetrates the thick canopy overhead, but the little that does seems to dance with swirls of what seem like fine dust. Leon is struck suddenly by an urge, his nose wrinkling—
He sneezes. Ugh.
When Leon hears something drop heavily to the ground behind him he's swift to wheel around, lowering his center of gravity, his knife sticky with plant sap but ready. For a moment, Leon doubts his eyes, because that hulking shadow rising to his full height looks familiar in ways his mind pulls sharply away from, unwilling to acknowledge, directly at odds with the contrariwise compulsion to pin all his attention on him.
Can't be.