Chapter Text
Did this tunnel cross all the way back to fucking Yulong?
Skrimm knew that the thought was outlandish, but it entered his internal monologue faster than he could banish it. He was told, by some person or another, that this was simply a waste tunnel, meant to carry the filth of civility away from the Elven abode, but the stress of the escape made it feel as if he would never put enough distance between himself and the haven.
All things considered, he was faring better than his other party members. Jornir, poor fella, doubled over and hobbling through the tight shaft of this sewer as best as he could. Barnabos, the biggest man that wasn't a giant that the goblin had ever seen before, keeping his battle-weary senses behind them and suffering in silence. Taishen, smaller, but still hunched, doing his best to guide Queenie by a shoulder and his flame. Where Queenie may have had the ability to stand up straight, her eyes flitted and squinted as she tried to read the tunnel's path ahead, ears twitching and honing in on the sounds of hell above.
Skrimm felt he was properly prepared for this situation, for once. Darkvision, small stature, a big fucking knife. It's a recipe for success. A success is what they need in this moment, recent events flashing though his minds' eye as his survey fell on the last member of their party.
She felt along the hewn wall of the tunnel, gaze firmly fixed on Taishen's flame. One step after another, hushed, as if stealthing when this deep underground was going to make a difference. Her fingers trailed cracks that ran in the wall, telling some fortune about how they were going to get out of this dilemma in one piece that only mute weirdos could read. Her nails weren't manicured like some Breegian noblewomen he had seen before, but they weren't filthy either, not chipped or split or bloodied or missing. The skin of them too, mallow white from a lack of sun, even with his limited darkvision colour palette.
His steeled gaze softened as imagined those soft hands kneading fresh bread dough, picking spring daffodils, doing activities more homely and gentle than killing and skinning forest beasts. Barnabos had always called Skrimm's hands soft and unworked. If these, he thought, looking at his palms, have apparently never seen a day's work and will get me killed dead… What does that say about hers?
His gaze was still on her hands as she stopped and snapped her fingers to get the party's attention. It was a sharp and crisp sound that pierced his thoughts, and he realized that he'd been staring for way too long. "A light," she gestured, "up ahead. A minute more, then…"
Knowing what awaited them at the tunnel's light send a jolt through his body, all too familiar terror of the unknown. He was tempted to shrink from it, but some spark inside of him, origin unknown, forced him to hold his position. Fear is the mind killer, Skrimm thought as he took the head of the party, and I don't plan on dying in this wasteland. I sure as hell won't have this little lady's death on my conscience either.
"C'mon, idiots! Get a hustle on! I can't stand it anymore. We can't kill whatever that fuckin' thing is from all the way in here. You too, Daisy."