tdr_backup | Into the maelstrom....

~The man who has introduced himself to Snape as Wesley Wyndham-Pryce strides purposely before him through the curling, chilled mists of Level One. The two men are of similar height and build, and if any were watching, they may have thought Snape to be a mere shadow of the first, except that Snape walks with his head down. But no one watches them; the shades here are as oblivious to their wanderings as Snape once was. They are too caught up in their own pain, whatever it was that lay just out of their grasp, to care about the two men who pass by. Price had tried to get others to join, but has given up.

Snape can't help but wonder why Pryce had had success rousing him from his own personal torment, but seems to have no luck with anyone else. He had been as oblivious of the other shades until Pryce had interrupted the visions that haunted him, and had motivated Snape to leave his window and try to find answers to the questions he had. It had been difficult at first, but now Snape finds it easy enough to avoid looking at the soft inviting glow that beckons to him from each window.

Pryce has been marking their progress with small strips of his clothes, which he ties to the outside of the houses that have things like porch railings, nails that aren't quite driven completely in, and so on. Snape prefers not to get that close to the windows and so digs a heel through the dirt on occasion instead. They have traveled this way, resting here and there, for what seems like weeks.

Yet now it seems like their persistence is about to pay off; the wind is beginning to pick up and blow the mists in little eddies, thinning it and, unfortunately, making it even colder. Snape lifts his head and sniffs the air. It smells faintly of ozone, as if there is a storm approaching.~

Do you smell that?

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The wind is picking up. This is new; this is good. Perhaps we're making progress.

*Wesley plunges ahead, determined to leave behind the pain of level one. He glances at Snape to see how he's faring. He sees tension in his eyes and wonders if he is also experiencing the slight pain behind the eyes, like a migraine.*

*Snape's level of pain is difficult to read; he tolerates physical pain fairly well. His headache is very minor compared to some of the other maladies that have afflicted him since his arrival, and he has become used to-though not happy about-the comings and goings of Hell's torments.*

It feels like there's a storm ahead. I've never known a storm to occur here before. Of course, I've never wandered this far from the center before, either,

*he adds wryly.*

A storm is an indication of Level two. We're making progress, then.

*Wes isn't sure that's necessarily a good thing. All he knows is that when he's moving, when he's distracted by a mission, the torment in his heart is lessened. He just wishes he could say the same for his head. A good hard drink, he thinks, would be wonderful. Not a chance in Hell...*

And where is this city you want to go to again?

*Snape pulls his black cloak around him tighter, not because he thinks it will lessen the chill he carries with him, but because the wind is increasing with each step, and it is beginning to whip around him and get in the way.*

*Wesley makes no immediate reply. The wind is becoming stronger and he calls to his companion over the howl:*

I think I can see someone ahead of us. We should approach them, see if we can help them. They don't look demonic. Follow me.

*Snape shrugs; he can't see any point in trying to reply, since the wind is trying to force the breath back into his lungs anyway.*

*Wes approaches the solitary figure ahead of them. It's a woman, and she turns and appears delighted to see the two of them. She calls out, but her voice is lost in the roar of the wind.*

This has to be level two. I don't see any houses, and 2 is a maelstrom. I think this qualifies. Poor woman, she looks miserable.

*As he nears her, she dashes toward the two of them, letting the wind propel her all the more quickly.*

*Snape isn't sure about her; there's something about the way she rushes towards him that makes him think of danger.*

Be careful, Pryce. I'm not sure she's sane.

*He's not sure if Pryce will take his warning to heart; in some ways, he's far too chivalrous for his own good, at least to Snape's thinking.*

*The wind is really starting to howl around them now. Wesley isn't certain whether it's the wind or something more sinister causing his head to ache, but he is certain the woman approaching him is in serious distress. He calls to her, his voice whipped away on the wind. She looks terrible, frantic and ill, and he steps back as she reaches him.*

We're here to help

*Wesley tells her. She's slight and is having difficulty even standing erect in the gale. Wesley wants to offer assistance, but experience has lent him a strong sense of paranoia and distrust.*

Tell us what we can do to help you.

*The woman wails as she wrings her hands and thrusts them out before her in appeal. "Just hold me," she sobs, "I just want to be held again. Close. In someone's arms. So strong, so comforting... please, just hold me..."

Wesley pulls back, instinct repelling him and remorse crippling him.*

I can't, I'm sorry, Miss, but you're not the one-

*The gale strikes a new high, and the woman is whipped away from their sight. They, too, are drawn into the storm, and there is nothing either one of them can due to prevent themselves from being swept entirely into Level Two of Hell.*

Into the maelstrom....

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