He's up and walking before it's finished. Stumbling. Whether or not the mouth traveling up his throat and climbing his jaw is screaming is an unimportant question. What is important is getting out. He tightens his grip on the shattered end of some bone sticking out from the wall, can't help but notice the noise as the tip of his trigger finger grinds against it, bone on bone.
Nevermind.
Nevermind what's happening to his body, nevermind the whimpering moans coming out his mouth now, nevermind that inane curiosity about just where that mouth is located now, exactly. It's especially important not to pay any mind to that. What matters is making his body, whatever it's doing just now, work, and he does. Doesn't focus well enough to see reality twisting around in front of him, though, the first he notices his path is blocked is when he stumbles on a bunched up ring of muscle and looks down and sees a Legionnnaire below him.
Focus. What matters is that he can't get through the archway, or whatever it is, from this angle. The opening is low to the ground and he, for reasons he can not afford to examine too closely, is standing on the ceiling. He reaches out, leftover blood pooled around the flesh bunched up around his knuckles raining all a sudden down toward the other Legionnaire's head and shoulders.
"Help me," is what comes out of him first, a rasping, pointless sentence. "Pull me down." There's the more useful one, simple, direct. Focusing only on what needs to be done.
Roland Deschain
Nevermind.
Nevermind what's happening to his body, nevermind the whimpering moans coming out his mouth now, nevermind that inane curiosity about just where that mouth is located now, exactly. It's especially important not to pay any mind to that. What matters is making his body, whatever it's doing just now, work, and he does. Doesn't focus well enough to see reality twisting around in front of him, though, the first he notices his path is blocked is when he stumbles on a bunched up ring of muscle and looks down and sees a Legionnnaire below him.
Focus. What matters is that he can't get through the archway, or whatever it is, from this angle. The opening is low to the ground and he, for reasons he can not afford to examine too closely, is standing on the ceiling. He reaches out, leftover blood pooled around the flesh bunched up around his knuckles raining all a sudden down toward the other Legionnaire's head and shoulders.
"Help me," is what comes out of him first, a rasping, pointless sentence. "Pull me down." There's the more useful one, simple, direct. Focusing only on what needs to be done.