[ laura doesn't have a plan so much as a series of bad hypotheticals. if she can get the rock, maybe she can cut the vines binding her in place. if she can cut the vines, maybe she can run. if she can run, maybe she can find that goddamn pit again. laura never thought she'd miss a horror-inducing cavern so much. all she has are ifs and maybes, but it's better than standing here waiting to be sacrificed, or whatever the hell else they have planned. she'll even try to save the guy too, it could end up very heroic.
what actually happens, is laura almost drops the rock. she had felt insane earlier, grinding down an edge on the thing into a sharp point, but now she's hysterically thankful for whatever paranoia pointed her in that direction. she's careful to keep her cursing under her breath as figures draw nearer, as if that makes what she's trying any more subtle. it's a bad angle, she can't get the right pressure to saw through the vines, and she can't tell if it's her imagination or not but they feel like they're tightening.
attempted quiet makes way for desperation again, laura's gaze darting between the approaching acolytes, the objects in their hands, the man next to her, awkwardly craning over her shoulder to see if any progress has been made at all on escape. panic, to the tune of 'just fucking break already' and 'let me out' and 'please, please don't do this'.
if the acolytes can hear her pleas they certainly don't react. laura might as well be silent for all the good it's doing her, but she keeps going, keeps struggling and trying to cut away at the vines around her wrists, even as the thorns dig tighter. even as the vines drag them abruptly to their knees, and those objects become very clearly identifiable as filled bowls, held out in offering. ]
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what actually happens, is laura almost drops the rock. she had felt insane earlier, grinding down an edge on the thing into a sharp point, but now she's hysterically thankful for whatever paranoia pointed her in that direction. she's careful to keep her cursing under her breath as figures draw nearer, as if that makes what she's trying any more subtle. it's a bad angle, she can't get the right pressure to saw through the vines, and she can't tell if it's her imagination or not but they feel like they're tightening.
attempted quiet makes way for desperation again, laura's gaze darting between the approaching acolytes, the objects in their hands, the man next to her, awkwardly craning over her shoulder to see if any progress has been made at all on escape. panic, to the tune of 'just fucking break already' and 'let me out' and 'please, please don't do this'.
if the acolytes can hear her pleas they certainly don't react. laura might as well be silent for all the good it's doing her, but she keeps going, keeps struggling and trying to cut away at the vines around her wrists, even as the thorns dig tighter. even as the vines drag them abruptly to their knees, and those objects become very clearly identifiable as filled bowls, held out in offering. ]