Why did fate always have to ruin a good thing? It had been so lovely, such a wonderful proposition. Slip along the ocean bed and collect the many trickets, and treasures. Not that he had been blind to the eerie foreboding unnaturalness or the suspense which hung over the dying fish and coral. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. And it whispered in his ear to leave, to go. But then there was a shiny pearl. And farther down, a glimmering sun disk shell. And who could say no to that?
He should have said no to that. He knew that when he heard the roar. When he felt the trembles. When he was racing back up the dunes as fast as his legs could carry him he knew. They were absolutely screwed. He especially- all for a few pearls and shells. Idiot.
The first wave tangled his legs over the last of the dunes and down the gold fell. A roar, beastly and savage sounds in the water as he rises up above the surf, finding his footing again as the wave recedes for another go. It wasn’t going to give in much, so there was little time to waste. Legs, kick and pull as he climbs the last dune and up towards the steps to the market. Screams, shouts and prays echo the terrors now filling the sky as the water, waves broken up by the outer dunes, now floods through.
He should have learned his lesson. The gold should have continued to race the water up to the keep (a race he was somewhat winning). But, there was a lovely cuff. Abandoned. Bobbing in the water. Forgotten and kicked about as horses raced from the ankle deep, rising water. You shouldn’t blame him when he stopped. Shouldn’t blame him when he reached for it. Children will always reach for candy, and the gold will always reach for shiny objects.
The gold found out, a minute and half later, the object wasn’t as free as he thought, when, in pushing through the deeper water, a roar louder than the rest, was heard above the chaos. The wave was massive, but he didn’t have time to marvel. Over the outer banks it crashed, and crushed beneath it the lower stalls. Splinters of wood, metal, and even the lovely objects of jewelry became knives and razors.
By the time the gold had made his way to the upper courtyards, he’d numbed to the several stinging cuts on his lower legs. Salt was supposed to heal right? Perhaps that’s what it meant: it gave you all the pain up front. He was now walking, limbs exhausted, when he came upon a red brute who he’d met before, and a speckled bird. Catching only the last of what the commander in chief like voice said the gold was brought to a halt several paces from them. Exhaustion was beginning to muffle his tongue, but it still rose in his brain. No shit Sherlock.
Yet if this was an attack…where do you fight? Still by them he turns to look back out through an opening. Water. Flotsam. Bodies. And no cause could be seen but Mother Nature or a God, vicious and cruel as they welded the weapons of water and sky. How do you fight against that?
(Still he did not run. As little invested in this castle and keep as he was, the gold remained beside the other two, listening, waiting. Call him out for it though, and you might scare him off, but perhaps there was a little fight budding in him for this land.)
OOC ::
"speech"
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