Ouroboros
Out of the frying pan into the bright fire: it was precisely how Dan felt about what he was doing, in another extravagant moment. It wouldn't be awkward now if it would werewolfs that were coming on their way, though...
Kneeled on the graveled soil, he flickered his flashlight around the scenery, concerned by the fact that he couldn't find trace of the supposed source of the humming heard earlier. Nothing that could be discerned by his 'thorough' inspection.
But surely someone (or something?) was there only a few moments ago.
The groaning DID sound like it was produced by a person. He lacked, however, the confirmation. Something that he had missed just barely, it seemed. Perhaps....
«Oh, not that vanishing trick again!», Dan mused, as he imagined the same mysterious impossible movement performed before by those ravaging beasts in the plaza.
Sound of steps coming in the direction of the wall cut his thinking. He was about to witness the approach of horribly deformed animals. The damn dogs guarding the gates... this time they were really canines. and they sure weren't Lassies!..... Tense, Dan didn't dare to move a muscle.
He lowered himself even more, and was now practically lying down on the gravel, but in such position he managed to find a sort of a peep hole in one of the bricks, from where he could glimpse the other side.
Four, five, no -- definitely four dogs carrying a distinctive behaviour of "prowl mode". Coming from the north -- the direction where Dan was proceeding, cutting him off. Going towards the court and passing the DODGE van.
At this time they drew near alongside the wall, leafy ears swaggering, as if having picked something up.
They possessed medium-large build, strong, athletic legs, a sallow dark skin with patches of brown, marked with cuts and bleedings open wounds, except in the underbelly which was coloured in light brown, small swiveling tail, attentive raised eyes.
Dan would later learn that these were, overgrown, modified Plotthunds. Three of those animals proceeded and had now stationed some five meters (17 feet) southwards, meaning that they snooping at the area from where Dan had come.
Those fierce hounds kept sniffing around, looking for something. Dan changed his position. Those dogs were hunting by the scent, so it was a bad idea to stay there for longer. He could hear. The gnarling sounds. And the hounds were sniffing around, ever searching for prey.
Seemed like it was duck-hunting season. And Dan, unwittingly, was pretty much a sitting duck. Crouching there, apprehensively, Dan reasoned that the wet-due-to the-rain land would be a hindrance to the dogs and an advantage to him.
He was still very much wet, so those dogs woulds have difficulty in locking him. Blessed rain. Damned heat.
Still crouching, he dragged himself in to the bushes, making as little noise as he possibly could; his lengths proved not being totally effective, and each swaying of the bushes was leaving him petrified. Keeping on proceeding further deeper, moving through the trees and junk, meandering by the cobwebs insinuating between trunks and curious spiders observing his movements, he eventually arrived to a stripped terrain, an unusual clearing.
Unusual, furthermore, because of the unexpected construction planted in the middle that Dan saw, abandoned, at his front. It was a shack, or a hut of sorts, circular, with a radius of about 3 meters (10 feet) with a solid appearance, built with what looked like big boulders of lavanda blue granite. At the top, several wooden boards were nailed tight, posing as the ceiling.
Terribly quiet. A shelter, maybe?
Getting to the van wasn't an option for the time being. He approached using all caution, crawling. There were no windows in the hut, only a few chinks, probably used to let the light penetrate th construction. A dim lit cabana. He got to the metallic door covered with a net.
And made it slide. It did, smoothly. Inside he noticed it was a single room, and his lantern swept by the contents.
Two things caught his firsthand attention.
The first was a bottle of some beverage, resting over a quaint table. He pucked it up. It was a cider, a It was a cider, a drink he was never much found of. It had labeled the brand:«Perry». He took the lid off it and smelled it. He was in a severe need of something of drink, something to relieve.
He approached the open bottle from his lips and first drank a sip of it, as a try-out. Seemed fine enough. Not poisonous. Swiftly, he thrusted the bottle and took a large gulp of it. Refreshing, for sure. It had a sweet taste, something like persimmon... At any rate, the more he drank the less sweet it felt, and eventually it began to acquire a sour flavour.
Another thing that he had caught on was a folded oilskin across the room.
Kneeled on the graveled soil, he flickered his flashlight around the scenery, concerned by the fact that he couldn't find trace of the supposed source of the humming heard earlier. Nothing that could be discerned by his 'thorough' inspection.
But surely someone (or something?) was there only a few moments ago.
The groaning DID sound like it was produced by a person. He lacked, however, the confirmation. Something that he had missed just barely, it seemed. Perhaps....
«Oh, not that vanishing trick again!», Dan mused, as he imagined the same mysterious impossible movement performed before by those ravaging beasts in the plaza.
Sound of steps coming in the direction of the wall cut his thinking. He was about to witness the approach of horribly deformed animals. The damn dogs guarding the gates... this time they were really canines. and they sure weren't Lassies!..... Tense, Dan didn't dare to move a muscle.
He lowered himself even more, and was now practically lying down on the gravel, but in such position he managed to find a sort of a peep hole in one of the bricks, from where he could glimpse the other side.
Four, five, no -- definitely four dogs carrying a distinctive behaviour of "prowl mode". Coming from the north -- the direction where Dan was proceeding, cutting him off. Going towards the court and passing the DODGE van.
At this time they drew near alongside the wall, leafy ears swaggering, as if having picked something up.
They possessed medium-large build, strong, athletic legs, a sallow dark skin with patches of brown, marked with cuts and bleedings open wounds, except in the underbelly which was coloured in light brown, small swiveling tail, attentive raised eyes.
Dan would later learn that these were, overgrown, modified Plotthunds. Three of those animals proceeded and had now stationed some five meters (17 feet) southwards, meaning that they snooping at the area from where Dan had come.
Those fierce hounds kept sniffing around, looking for something. Dan changed his position. Those dogs were hunting by the scent, so it was a bad idea to stay there for longer. He could hear. The gnarling sounds. And the hounds were sniffing around, ever searching for prey.
Seemed like it was duck-hunting season. And Dan, unwittingly, was pretty much a sitting duck. Crouching there, apprehensively, Dan reasoned that the wet-due-to the-rain land would be a hindrance to the dogs and an advantage to him.
He was still very much wet, so those dogs woulds have difficulty in locking him. Blessed rain. Damned heat.
Still crouching, he dragged himself in to the bushes, making as little noise as he possibly could; his lengths proved not being totally effective, and each swaying of the bushes was leaving him petrified. Keeping on proceeding further deeper, moving through the trees and junk, meandering by the cobwebs insinuating between trunks and curious spiders observing his movements, he eventually arrived to a stripped terrain, an unusual clearing.
Unusual, furthermore, because of the unexpected construction planted in the middle that Dan saw, abandoned, at his front. It was a shack, or a hut of sorts, circular, with a radius of about 3 meters (10 feet) with a solid appearance, built with what looked like big boulders of lavanda blue granite. At the top, several wooden boards were nailed tight, posing as the ceiling.
Terribly quiet. A shelter, maybe?
Getting to the van wasn't an option for the time being. He approached using all caution, crawling. There were no windows in the hut, only a few chinks, probably used to let the light penetrate th construction. A dim lit cabana. He got to the metallic door covered with a net.
And made it slide. It did, smoothly. Inside he noticed it was a single room, and his lantern swept by the contents.
Two things caught his firsthand attention.
The first was a bottle of some beverage, resting over a quaint table. He pucked it up. It was a cider, a It was a cider, a drink he was never much found of. It had labeled the brand:«Perry». He took the lid off it and smelled it. He was in a severe need of something of drink, something to relieve.
He approached the open bottle from his lips and first drank a sip of it, as a try-out. Seemed fine enough. Not poisonous. Swiftly, he thrusted the bottle and took a large gulp of it. Refreshing, for sure. It had a sweet taste, something like persimmon... At any rate, the more he drank the less sweet it felt, and eventually it began to acquire a sour flavour.
Another thing that he had caught on was a folded oilskin across the room.
posted by tensayoki @ 02:42
