Race to Destiny
Damned pig. Why can't they find somewhere ELSE to spawn besides ancient ruins. This specimen was a particularly fine credit to it's race, with long white tusks, and a muscle laid body. He side-stepped the onslaught of the wild porker's tusks, teeth bared, breath hissing in and out between clenched teeth, his sweaty hand grasping a machete stained with blood not entirely comprised of the hoofed terror's. However, the boar was not to be detered. As it raced past him on tiny, hard feet, it's huge head swung to the side, catching the rangey man off guard. A gash appeared on the man's right thigh, and he grunted in surprise and pain.
The boar, sensing weakness, flung itself across the lichen covered stones, tiny hoofs pattering, aiming it's compact body for the tall, reeling figure. Werner VonCroy felt a sharp pain slide across his abdomen, and he gasped, teeth clenched, and toppled backward. The pig lept. ('Were these things possessed?' He had to wonder, in a small part of his mind, that had detatched itself from the present situation. 'They seemed to be.') He brought up his knife reflexively.
A sharp squeal filled the air.
And silence, blissful, merciful silence ensued, soothing his throbbing head.
Werner VonCroy lay under the boar's carcass, panting for breath. A dark stain of red spread it's way slowly across his mid section. VonCroy savagely shoved the carcass with his knife, making it slide off him.
He brought himself up on one elbow, knife clenched in his bloodless hand. His mouth now sagged open, and ragged breathing was the only sound in the temple's courtyard. He brought his free hand up to touch the dark stain, and he cursed, breathlessly. The long, bony hand left his midriff,and touched the stain on his thigh. Von Croy staggered up, planting his legs wide, trying not to fall again. But he had got what he came for. The artifact was still pressed in his hand. He grinned, shoulders now thrown into the effort of breathing: rise and fall, rise and fall. Oh, God, he was getting dizzy.
Across the courtyard, a yell alerted him to another presence.
"Hey, VonCroy! You got it?" Ah. The American he had hired to help him with the mission.
Still panting, "Ja...."
"You okay?"
He was feeling dizzy from the loss of blood, but never mind that. He had got what he wanted. A crooked smile spread across his face. "Ja..."
"You sure?"
The world grew hazy at the edges. He didn't feel himself sway, nor hear himself awnser.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lara Croft snuck down the carpeted hall way in sock feet. If she was quiet enough, if she stayed out of any sudden patches of dawn sunlight, no one would notice her. She paused along side her parents huge oaken door bedroom. Soft breathing. Nothing more. Lara gave a relived exhale. She had been caught at least twice before, to her immense embarrasment; once by her visiting aunt's corgi, and once by Winston, who had been up early.
Her mind on the small, short haired, bad tempered, viscious dog, she crept, toe-heel down the vast expanse of the stairs.
Off to find left-over sandwhiches, and off to the woods we go. Lara grinned, flashing white teeth aganst her tanned skin. For ten hours or so.
Hopefully, if she had timed it just right, none of the staff would have been up at the ungodly hour.
The kitchen was just ahead, and a bit farther than that, the heavy doors to the outside.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Von Croy lay on his back, breathing shallowly. The last day had been hell, absolute hell. His leg wound had been infected, the tusk-to- the-stomach wound had nearly ripped apart his intestines, and he had accumulated a fever to the way back to civilization. His blue eyes flickered feebly across the ceiling. Hunh. So this was like to die. His vision blurred, and he closed his eyes wearily, clenching them shut hard, his jaws following suit.
The stomach wound throbbed, and he had the sudden urge to either die or vomit. His face twisted into a grimace, and he swallowed hard, wanting to sink into the nothingness that had come and go for the last day or so.
He heard quick, precise footsteps outside, pausing at the door. Probably the busboy.
Outside, he heard a voice being cleared, and a quick, loud rap on the door.
Oh, damn, no, go away.
"Mr. Von Croy?"
No, go die.
"Mr. Von Croy, you have recieved a letter."
I don't give a bloody damn about the letter, just leave me alone, and let me die peacefully. There was faint talking outside the door, like the pesterer had turned aside to adress someone near and behind him.
Steps nearned his doorway, and the American, what was his name? God, he had met the man maybe five days ago, but it felt longer by far. His voice, strong and insistent broke his reverie. "Von Croy? C'mon, I know you're not dead. So are you gonna awnser me?..." After several moments of dusty silence in which VonCroy stared sightlessly at the dust motes in their frantic dance, the American cursed low in his throat, and opened the door.
Dane Smith opened the polished wood door in front of him, holding the letter in one hand, growling low in his throat. The door jambed momentarily, and he shoved his shoulder into the door.
VonCroy's long body was stretched length-wise across the small sofa. His eyes stared aimlessly, and his face looked as a pallor from the dead.
Smith walked forward, face screwed into a grimace of hesitaion, and increduality of VonCroy's condition. Just as he was about to touch the man's broad shoulder, his head lolled in Smith direction, eyes regaining focus.
Smith was paralyzed. VonCroy's voice, usually smooth, rasped, "What?"
His paralasys broke, but he was stilled by his partner's authority. "A letter."
The German's head swung away, but his hand came up to accept it, and Smith handed it over. He heard the envelope ripped open, and the letter enclosed unfolded.
After a few minutes of silence, Dane Smith saw the German's weather beaten face change in a rapid succesion of emotions; scrunched in puzzlement, smoothed, then twisted in wry amusement, then into deep thought. A laugh broke through his pale lips, and VonCroy swung his legs over the couch, and with an effort, stood. He wobbled, and reached out a hand to grab briefly at Smith's shoulder to steady himself. VonCroy's grip was like a steel vice, and Smith winced momentarily. VonCroy smiled without humor. "Come, Smith. We have buisness to attend to before I write back to..... them." Smith wasn't accustomed to laconic replies from the man, so he pressed for more information. "Who, VonCroy?"
Werner VonCroy had already made his way half way across the room, albeit with slightly hunched shoulders as if from pain. He turned his head, but not his body, as if he had already dismissed Smith's presence from his mind. "The Crofts. Lord and Lady Henshingly Croft."
Damned pig. Why can't they find somewhere ELSE to spawn besides ancient ruins. This specimen was a particularly fine credit to it's race, with long white tusks, and a muscle laid body. He side-stepped the onslaught of the wild porker's tusks, teeth bared, breath hissing in and out between clenched teeth, his sweaty hand grasping a machete stained with blood not entirely comprised of the hoofed terror's. However, the boar was not to be detered. As it raced past him on tiny, hard feet, it's huge head swung to the side, catching the rangey man off guard. A gash appeared on the man's right thigh, and he grunted in surprise and pain.
The boar, sensing weakness, flung itself across the lichen covered stones, tiny hoofs pattering, aiming it's compact body for the tall, reeling figure. Werner VonCroy felt a sharp pain slide across his abdomen, and he gasped, teeth clenched, and toppled backward. The pig lept. ('Were these things possessed?' He had to wonder, in a small part of his mind, that had detatched itself from the present situation. 'They seemed to be.') He brought up his knife reflexively.
A sharp squeal filled the air.
And silence, blissful, merciful silence ensued, soothing his throbbing head.
Werner VonCroy lay under the boar's carcass, panting for breath. A dark stain of red spread it's way slowly across his mid section. VonCroy savagely shoved the carcass with his knife, making it slide off him.
He brought himself up on one elbow, knife clenched in his bloodless hand. His mouth now sagged open, and ragged breathing was the only sound in the temple's courtyard. He brought his free hand up to touch the dark stain, and he cursed, breathlessly. The long, bony hand left his midriff,and touched the stain on his thigh. Von Croy staggered up, planting his legs wide, trying not to fall again. But he had got what he came for. The artifact was still pressed in his hand. He grinned, shoulders now thrown into the effort of breathing: rise and fall, rise and fall. Oh, God, he was getting dizzy.
Across the courtyard, a yell alerted him to another presence.
"Hey, VonCroy! You got it?" Ah. The American he had hired to help him with the mission.
Still panting, "Ja...."
"You okay?"
He was feeling dizzy from the loss of blood, but never mind that. He had got what he wanted. A crooked smile spread across his face. "Ja..."
"You sure?"
The world grew hazy at the edges. He didn't feel himself sway, nor hear himself awnser.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lara Croft snuck down the carpeted hall way in sock feet. If she was quiet enough, if she stayed out of any sudden patches of dawn sunlight, no one would notice her. She paused along side her parents huge oaken door bedroom. Soft breathing. Nothing more. Lara gave a relived exhale. She had been caught at least twice before, to her immense embarrasment; once by her visiting aunt's corgi, and once by Winston, who had been up early.
Her mind on the small, short haired, bad tempered, viscious dog, she crept, toe-heel down the vast expanse of the stairs.
Off to find left-over sandwhiches, and off to the woods we go. Lara grinned, flashing white teeth aganst her tanned skin. For ten hours or so.
Hopefully, if she had timed it just right, none of the staff would have been up at the ungodly hour.
The kitchen was just ahead, and a bit farther than that, the heavy doors to the outside.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Von Croy lay on his back, breathing shallowly. The last day had been hell, absolute hell. His leg wound had been infected, the tusk-to- the-stomach wound had nearly ripped apart his intestines, and he had accumulated a fever to the way back to civilization. His blue eyes flickered feebly across the ceiling. Hunh. So this was like to die. His vision blurred, and he closed his eyes wearily, clenching them shut hard, his jaws following suit.
The stomach wound throbbed, and he had the sudden urge to either die or vomit. His face twisted into a grimace, and he swallowed hard, wanting to sink into the nothingness that had come and go for the last day or so.
He heard quick, precise footsteps outside, pausing at the door. Probably the busboy.
Outside, he heard a voice being cleared, and a quick, loud rap on the door.
Oh, damn, no, go away.
"Mr. Von Croy?"
No, go die.
"Mr. Von Croy, you have recieved a letter."
I don't give a bloody damn about the letter, just leave me alone, and let me die peacefully. There was faint talking outside the door, like the pesterer had turned aside to adress someone near and behind him.
Steps nearned his doorway, and the American, what was his name? God, he had met the man maybe five days ago, but it felt longer by far. His voice, strong and insistent broke his reverie. "Von Croy? C'mon, I know you're not dead. So are you gonna awnser me?..." After several moments of dusty silence in which VonCroy stared sightlessly at the dust motes in their frantic dance, the American cursed low in his throat, and opened the door.
Dane Smith opened the polished wood door in front of him, holding the letter in one hand, growling low in his throat. The door jambed momentarily, and he shoved his shoulder into the door.
VonCroy's long body was stretched length-wise across the small sofa. His eyes stared aimlessly, and his face looked as a pallor from the dead.
Smith walked forward, face screwed into a grimace of hesitaion, and increduality of VonCroy's condition. Just as he was about to touch the man's broad shoulder, his head lolled in Smith direction, eyes regaining focus.
Smith was paralyzed. VonCroy's voice, usually smooth, rasped, "What?"
His paralasys broke, but he was stilled by his partner's authority. "A letter."
The German's head swung away, but his hand came up to accept it, and Smith handed it over. He heard the envelope ripped open, and the letter enclosed unfolded.
After a few minutes of silence, Dane Smith saw the German's weather beaten face change in a rapid succesion of emotions; scrunched in puzzlement, smoothed, then twisted in wry amusement, then into deep thought. A laugh broke through his pale lips, and VonCroy swung his legs over the couch, and with an effort, stood. He wobbled, and reached out a hand to grab briefly at Smith's shoulder to steady himself. VonCroy's grip was like a steel vice, and Smith winced momentarily. VonCroy smiled without humor. "Come, Smith. We have buisness to attend to before I write back to..... them." Smith wasn't accustomed to laconic replies from the man, so he pressed for more information. "Who, VonCroy?"
Werner VonCroy had already made his way half way across the room, albeit with slightly hunched shoulders as if from pain. He turned his head, but not his body, as if he had already dismissed Smith's presence from his mind. "The Crofts. Lord and Lady Henshingly Croft."