[much like full sentences, Viserys escapes him. Rincewind watches with no small amount of insult as the blonde uses Rincewind's own tried-and-true running trick against him, out of sight well before the wizard can even consider what he'd do if he'd gotten a hand on him. Belatedly, he finally decides he'd have thumped the little prat in the mouth, and this thought does make him feel slightly better.
The crack of a broken stool reminds him there are other, more pressing matters for now. Rincewind whirls back around, his stomach plummeting into knees which knock together as the grizzly's roar reverberates through him. More bikers and bar staff stream past and out the door now, and for the life of him Rincewind can't fathom why he's not following. By all accounts (most importantly his own), it's the perfect moment to run.
Except, of course, to that part of him which doesn't want to see his friend trampled to death, or eaten. Surprisingly, that part of him's an insistent bastard.]
Stercus, [he mutters angrily, half-whining under his breath.] Stercus, stercus, stercus, I'm really going to die this time, I hope I'm happy with that.
[the Luggage whirls back to face Jorah again like a matador, if matadors were also bulls. The disturbance of Jorah's roar fails to phase enchantment and bloodlust-soaked wood, which is instead excited into a furious stamping of feet, revving the gears for another pass. It opens its lid in answer, unfurling a pulsing tongue the color of redwood and teeth white as bleached beech. Beyond both, black void lies within, battle-hungry and eager to be filled. The Luggage is quick, and it moves.
Rincewind is only slightly quicker.
Like some scrawny alley cat, the wizard throws himself atop the Luggage, momentum and surprise carrying what weight can't to force its lid halfway shut, providing enough leverage for him to get an arm on a handle and a leg spread across a hinge. It would be tempting to call his terrified yowl a battle-cry, but even the most poetic of bards would have to concede that such a misnomer for "Stop it, stop it, stop it, oh gods, don't kill me, it's Rincewind, oh shit, stooooop!" would be too much fiction even for a ballad.]
no subject
[much like full sentences, Viserys escapes him. Rincewind watches with no small amount of insult as the blonde uses Rincewind's own tried-and-true running trick against him, out of sight well before the wizard can even consider what he'd do if he'd gotten a hand on him. Belatedly, he finally decides he'd have thumped the little prat in the mouth, and this thought does make him feel slightly better.
The crack of a broken stool reminds him there are other, more pressing matters for now. Rincewind whirls back around, his stomach plummeting into knees which knock together as the grizzly's roar reverberates through him. More bikers and bar staff stream past and out the door now, and for the life of him Rincewind can't fathom why he's not following. By all accounts (most importantly his own), it's the perfect moment to run.
Except, of course, to that part of him which doesn't want to see his friend trampled to death, or eaten. Surprisingly, that part of him's an insistent bastard.]
Stercus, [he mutters angrily, half-whining under his breath.] Stercus, stercus, stercus, I'm really going to die this time, I hope I'm happy with that.
[the Luggage whirls back to face Jorah again like a matador, if matadors were also bulls. The disturbance of Jorah's roar fails to phase enchantment and bloodlust-soaked wood, which is instead excited into a furious stamping of feet, revving the gears for another pass. It opens its lid in answer, unfurling a pulsing tongue the color of redwood and teeth white as bleached beech. Beyond both, black void lies within, battle-hungry and eager to be filled. The Luggage is quick, and it moves.
Rincewind is only slightly quicker.
Like some scrawny alley cat, the wizard throws himself atop the Luggage, momentum and surprise carrying what weight can't to force its lid halfway shut, providing enough leverage for him to get an arm on a handle and a leg spread across a hinge. It would be tempting to call his terrified yowl a battle-cry, but even the most poetic of bards would have to concede that such a misnomer for "Stop it, stop it, stop it, oh gods, don't kill me, it's Rincewind, oh shit, stooooop!" would be too much fiction even for a ballad.]