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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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*Snape has been thinking while following Wesley, and he's figured out that this isn't right. He knows he's not behaving properly, and Wesley _certainly_ isn't. As they reach the edge of the swamps, and as Wesley rounds on him, yelling somewhat coherently at him, Snape finally gets to see the physical transformation. He is a bit taken aback by the accusations, but the heavy brow and thuggish look that has overtaken Wesley is a bit more of a shock, even more so when the axe ends up embedded deeply in the tree--he wonders how close the tree came to being himself. He wants to tell Wesley that he's physically and mentally different, and that Snape must be, too. This has to be the new round of universal torment, he wants to say. But what comes out is...*

Hell.

*He's not pleased that articulating the rest of his thoughts isn't happening; he wants to say that Hell is responsible for this, if Wesley hasn't already figured this out, but he just can't get his mind and mouth to cooperate, and his mind feels oddly sluggish, thicker than the mud he's standing in. He starts to look down, but his mind has a vague notion that this is a bad idea, and he stops himself.*

*Wesley's only response is a grunt as he tries in consternation to remove the pick from the tree. All his training is melting swiftly from his grasp and he, unfortunately, is reverting back to his innate but unhoned capabilities. He no longer can access the information which would allow him to coordinate his muscles and his balance just so to best leverage the weapon from its prison. He merely pulls, straining his arms and legs and pulling muscles in his back. Snape hears a popping sound as he dislocates his shoulder with a howl of infuriation.*

Ow! Help, you!

*He slinks off in a growly huff to fume alone.*

*Snape has had no official training in leverage but he has had some in the use of tools. He fishes around in the mud until he finds a sharp rock and starts gouging the wood where the axe blade is buried. His strength and coordination in this task may not be as good as Wesley's, but he has endurance and keeps hacking away obediently; he has followed instructions most of his life and this is just one more instance in his mind. He makes an occasional grunt from his efforts but otherwise is silent. He also knows better than to interrupt Wesley's surly moment.*

*Wesley, meanwhile, has become distracted and distressed by something he's seen in the black, cesspool liquid surrounding them. He makes sputtering attempts at a warning that come out a bit like* aphe, aphe, wet, it moooo. grrrrrr, ike uhr... BAD?!

*Snape looks over, rock half-raised for yet another blow on the tree, and sees Wesley's distress. He tests the pickaxe, trying to wriggle it from the tree, and finally manages to free it. He splashes over to Wesley, offering it to him with concerned grunts.*

*Wesley begins hacking at the brackish waters with seemingly little finesse, though it isn't long before a monstrous shriek sounds and Wes lifts the pick to reveal a hideous eel-like thing writhing and wriggling on the point like some demonic fish bait. Wesley seems delighted; he barks several truncated laughs and lifts the thing over his head with his non-injured arm, then offers it to Snape, sinking his teeth ecstatically into the eel demon's sinuous tail.*

Fooood. Makes... well. Strongue. You! Me sharrrre.

*He offers Snape a satisfied smile, like a child who's just made a pbj breakfast for Daddy.*

*Snape is delighted and bites out huge chunks of eel meat from the belly. Snape withdraws the choicest bits of viscera, concentrating so hard on what to say that each word is rather drawn out, as are the pauses between.*

Yooooouuuuuu......neeeeeeeed......gooooood......eeeeeaaaaatttttt

*He offers Wesley the liver and heart, and fishes further inside for the kidneys. He knows Wesley is injured and needs to be cared for, and his instincts and now deeply hidden knowledge of potions ingredients are telling him that these particular organs are the best thing for making someone healthier and stronger.*

*Wesley is thrilled and yums down the goodies. So doing, he feels stronger already and gestures eagerly to Snape to follow him.*

Keeeeeeee on. Go. D...D...this? Urnngh, go.

*He returns to slogging through the swamp, alert for danger but content.*

*Snape, too, is very pleased at first, and slings the tattered remains of the eel over his shoulder. While walking, he looks for more food, adding small monster fish, frogs, and other miscellanea to his stash. But as he's reaching to crush the throat of a small frog, he notices something that suddenly disturbs his primitive mind. He can't quite grasp its full meaning, but the images from his Level 1 mind hasn't changed, and the murky water in which they're wading is a perfect reflective surface. He can't quite understand remorse, but his mind translates it into the more primitive, gut reaction of anger.*

AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGG!!!!!! BAAAAAAADDDDD!

*He begins to thrash madly at the images, smashing his fists into the water repeatedly, as hard as possible.*

*Wesley sees Snape behaving thusly and, believing him to be attacking some hidden foe, mimicks him, thrusting his fists with all his might into the black water. As he draws them out for another round, he notices the horrid little leeches infesting the swamps of Five latched onto his flesh and he screams. Like a girl. Suddenly he's splashing through the swamp with reckless panic and inevitably, he finds himself mired in swamp muck and unable to move. He screams again as the mire pulls him down and he is drowned out by a mouthful of brackish sludge.*

*All the thrashing has created ripples and the water has lost its reflective properties, which is fortunate for Wesley, since Snape's attention is drawn away from the water and up towards him as he screams. He sees his leader charge off and, of course, does so, too. Only Wesley's head start and slightly longer legs keep him in the lead, and when Snape notices Wesley is sinking, he slows down, looking around for the cause. Finding none above water, Snape backtracks to one of the trees and breaks off a hefty stick, approaching the spot where Wesley has nearly disappeared with great caution. Carefully, he prods the stick into the ooze surrounding Wesley.*