( Running is a galling thing, Steak finds. This may not be real but the emotions it evokes very much are, and those emotions are equal parts terror and the dutybound desire to face his inevitable end. Running, feet pounding against the earth as the winding tunnel blurs to meaningless background, easily bypassing every twist, turn and uneven surface designed to trip him up, is anathema to that duty.
Even though it isn't real, worry knots in his gut. He should be protecting Red Wine from the things down there. Buying him the time he needs.
(Don't be ridiculous, Steak. They're not real. You know this.)
He skids to a halt beside Red Wine, legs aching and the cold dread still heavy in his stomach, spreading over his spine and across his shoulders like a slime, drawing a shudder from Steak before he speaks; )
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Even though it isn't real, worry knots in his gut. He should be protecting Red Wine from the things down there. Buying him the time he needs.
(Don't be ridiculous, Steak. They're not real. You know this.)
He skids to a halt beside Red Wine, legs aching and the cold dread still heavy in his stomach, spreading over his spine and across his shoulders like a slime, drawing a shudder from Steak before he speaks; )
What the hell was that about?!
( Leaving him like that. )