( Still, the Horizon refuses to let him go. Urianger has been wandering for what feels like days β though in truth, the passage of time has been far from a primary concern β in a strange back and forth between his own realm and those of his fellow Summoned. Some instances have been uneventful, leaving him to the perils of his own mind, but others?
Well.
Others have made themselves a problem. This time, however, Urianger finds himself alone in the snow-blased lands of what appears to be a large keep. There is nothing immediately concerning about the place β no blatant peril looming on the horizon β and so Urianger wraps his cloak around himself a little tighter against the cold as he begins to head towards shelter.
His first mistake, really, was in not recognising the vines.
It happens more quickly than he'd been prepared for β or perhaps it's simply a symptom of having not been prepared at all. The vines he'd thought to be natural shift just a little in his periphery, before snaking in close and coiling tight around one unfortunately bare ankle. His sandals provide little protection from either the cold or the thing, which roots him in place almost curiously as the crack and snap of bark herlads its arrival. )
By the Twelve ...
( Is all he manages as the creature surges forwards from the knot of trees, its faceless head focusing him down with the weight of an unseen gaze as further tendrils lash out to bind Urianger tight.
Whatever kind of Morbol this is, Urianger has never seen its like before! )
1 β’ Exterior!
( Still, the Horizon refuses to let him go. Urianger has been wandering for what feels like days β though in truth, the passage of time has been far from a primary concern β in a strange back and forth between his own realm and those of his fellow Summoned. Some instances have been uneventful, leaving him to the perils of his own mind, but others?
Well.
Others have made themselves a problem. This time, however, Urianger finds himself alone in the snow-blased lands of what appears to be a large keep. There is nothing immediately concerning about the place β no blatant peril looming on the horizon β and so Urianger wraps his cloak around himself a little tighter against the cold as he begins to head towards shelter.
His first mistake, really, was in not recognising the vines.
It happens more quickly than he'd been prepared for β or perhaps it's simply a symptom of having not been prepared at all. The vines he'd thought to be natural shift just a little in his periphery, before snaking in close and coiling tight around one unfortunately bare ankle. His sandals provide little protection from either the cold or the thing, which roots him in place almost curiously as the crack and snap of bark herlads its arrival. )
By the Twelve ...
( Is all he manages as the creature surges forwards from the knot of trees, its faceless head focusing him down with the weight of an unseen gaze as further tendrils lash out to bind Urianger tight.
Whatever kind of Morbol this is, Urianger has never seen its like before! )