[the Luggage is a force to be reckoned with - a monstrous terror with more kills to its legacy than legs, of which there are a hundred. It has devoured leaders and usurped gods; it has left broken, flaming swathes of ruin in the wake of its travels.
And now, now, it's had its lid pinned shut by a bear it should have eaten, and a master is also probably should have just eaten. This is a terrible afternoon.
Rincewind dares to open an eye only once the Luggage stops pulling under their combined efforts. The chest sags under him, disgruntled but seemingly, finally obedient. If it wanted to, Rincewind's sure, it still could have probably dragged them both across the room; he's incredibly grateful it doesn't. Rincewind looks up. Jorah's close enough that every hot, animal breath blows wisps of hair from Rincewind's face.]
That... [he swallows, clearing his voice and turning his head from a waft of stale beer and bile.] ...That was incredibly stupid of us.
[Rincewind loosens his grip and surveys the damage from his new vantage point. He counts crushed nuts and upended tables, and the last few boots of stray bikers crunching over glass as their wearers rush out the door. The jukebox, perhaps the only undamaged object left in the room, switches to a track called "Wayward Son", with a melody accompanied by the wail of distant, approaching sirens. Recognizing them, Rincewind groans and starts to slide to the ground.
Before he can reach it, the Luggage, having officially reached the daily limit of its tolerance, rolls its weight sharply and throws the wizard toes over tits to clear him off its lid and into Jorah.
It's not the sort of bloody victory the box is used to claiming, but it'll take it.]
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And now, now, it's had its lid pinned shut by a bear it should have eaten, and a master is also probably should have just eaten. This is a terrible afternoon.
Rincewind dares to open an eye only once the Luggage stops pulling under their combined efforts. The chest sags under him, disgruntled but seemingly, finally obedient. If it wanted to, Rincewind's sure, it still could have probably dragged them both across the room; he's incredibly grateful it doesn't. Rincewind looks up. Jorah's close enough that every hot, animal breath blows wisps of hair from Rincewind's face.]
That... [he swallows, clearing his voice and turning his head from a waft of stale beer and bile.] ...That was incredibly stupid of us.
[Rincewind loosens his grip and surveys the damage from his new vantage point. He counts crushed nuts and upended tables, and the last few boots of stray bikers crunching over glass as their wearers rush out the door. The jukebox, perhaps the only undamaged object left in the room, switches to a track called "Wayward Son", with a melody accompanied by the wail of distant, approaching sirens. Recognizing them, Rincewind groans and starts to slide to the ground.
Before he can reach it, the Luggage, having officially reached the daily limit of its tolerance, rolls its weight sharply and throws the wizard toes over tits to clear him off its lid and into Jorah.
It's not the sort of bloody victory the box is used to claiming, but it'll take it.]