"I'm here," is the gasped response Wilhelm gets. Less so now because Claude's being compressed as he was seconds ago, but more because the thorny vines are distinctly dragging him along the ground. And not with a chance to let him sit up again first as something - he doesn't want to know what - scrapes his face and leaves a gash.
One of many, he thinks, since even if his hands still have no real sensation to him with the feeling cut off it's not enough to remove the sensation of blood pooling down his arms. It has to be going somewhere. Something suddenly splits the skin on his shoulder and he chokes out a strangled noise, thinking it stabbed him. But no: when he manages to twist enough to look whatever these thorns are have come out of his skin like the mouth on the deceased nearby. It's painful, incredibly painful, and with horror Claude watches as the thorns reach out to drag someone else close. They also aren't alive.
Wilhelm's voice calling for someone else gets his attention, but the vines also seem to listen. As if they're alive, capable of their own reasoning, they drag Claude along closer to the teen. Convenient for some warped version of reassurance, really.
"Listen, this isn't. How it ends." The pollen from before seems to weigh heavy in his lungs now as Claude's voice is little more than a rasp when he has to stop to breathe every few words like his chest can't inflate. Others have been through this besides them; they may not be fine and the two of them won't be either, but maybe it isn't false hope after all to say - "Just- just hang on. We'll get out of here. We have to."
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One of many, he thinks, since even if his hands still have no real sensation to him with the feeling cut off it's not enough to remove the sensation of blood pooling down his arms. It has to be going somewhere. Something suddenly splits the skin on his shoulder and he chokes out a strangled noise, thinking it stabbed him. But no: when he manages to twist enough to look whatever these thorns are have come out of his skin like the mouth on the deceased nearby. It's painful, incredibly painful, and with horror Claude watches as the thorns reach out to drag someone else close. They also aren't alive.
Wilhelm's voice calling for someone else gets his attention, but the vines also seem to listen. As if they're alive, capable of their own reasoning, they drag Claude along closer to the teen. Convenient for some warped version of reassurance, really.
"Listen, this isn't. How it ends." The pollen from before seems to weigh heavy in his lungs now as Claude's voice is little more than a rasp when he has to stop to breathe every few words like his chest can't inflate. Others have been through this besides them; they may not be fine and the two of them won't be either, but maybe it isn't false hope after all to say - "Just- just hang on. We'll get out of here. We have to."