Mar. 16th, 2010

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It... wet.

~Wesley Wyndam-Pryce never imagined himself being at a loss for words. He LOVED words. To him, wordsmithing was as much an art as fine art, music composition, or sculpting marble. He worshipped words as some men worship women. So to find himself abominably inarticulate was making him rather cross.

He and Severus Snape had perservered, dodging demons, dead ends, and greed-consumed shades until at last they had been rewarded by a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, as it were. Indeed, the glimmer had signaled the end of Level 4; it was the glint of water standing in brackish puddles at the edge of the Swamps. Wesley, still inexplicably brutish, had declared it his superior leadership skills and had released a triumphant belch, followed by a salutory scratch down the front of his trousers.

Now he stands ankle-deep in the fetid wet filth, trying to spit mosquitos out of the air and surveying his options. To the left, swamp. To the right, swamp. Dead ahead and straight behind: swamp. He once again scratches his balls and gives a derisive snort, loud and guttural. He turns to Snape, his face glowery, as if he's blaming Snape for the soggy surroundings. He wants to ask Snape his opinion, tell him how he values his intelligence and companionship, and ask him if he needs a rest after all the digging, hiking, and slogging through muck they've done, but instead and to his inner horror, he instead states,~ You FUCK! You done it, this. We not and where. To any does... no...know... PISS!

~Enraged, infuriated, and completely reactionary, Wesley buries the pickaxe head deep into a bleeding and slimey swamp tree. Somewhere deep within himself where he still maintains a semblance of himself, he prays the tree isn't actually a demon.~


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