To Terrible Danger

Set the Scene Complication: [4] An NPC acts suddenly

Altered Scene: [6] Altered

Alteration: [5] Add a Pacing Move

Pacing Move: [4] Advance a Threat

Lavorra wakes with a start, eyes wide, a cry of surprise cut short by a warm hand over her mouth.

Laying on her side, she feels Lorkan clutch her tight against his naked body, his early morning stiffness rod-hard and pressed to her.

Alongside the shame and humiliation that steals over her as the details of last night return, she feels a growing sense of terror. She is naked, unarmed, powerless and she knows now that Lorkan is stronger than her. Whatever the circumstances and motivations of their tryst, she has no desire to rut with him in the dirt again.

She squirms in his grip, knowing it is futile. She let herself be claimed, and she is about to be taken again.

But then she becomes aware of the sounds from the camp, cutting through the still-dark morning air.

“Stop. Wriggling.” Lorkan hisses, his other arm crossed over her chest, not to grope her, but to hold her close and still. “Be very quiet.”

Something terrible is happening beyond the covered clearing that he took her to. The screams of men in fear for their lives fills her ears. And another sound, a dreadful, evil keening.

She squirms again, and manages to squeeze herself half out of Lorkan’s grasp. She pushes away from him with her feet, her toes brushing his rapidly deflating member.

“We need to see!” She whispers hoarsely at his hissed protestations. Crawling over the grass, painfully aware of her - no doubt hand-imprinted - bottom waving in Lorkan’s face, she reaches the edge of the trees, and peers out.

The thing that is killing the bandits hurts to look at. Thankfully, the morning is misty, and at most she makes out a squat bulk supported by three, four? Five? Over-long limbs, on which it careens around the long-dead fireside. She flinches, looking away for a moment, the sheer wrongness of whatever the creature is assaulting her senses. She hears a terrible cracking and looks back in time to see three spindly hands grip one of the bandits, and tear him apart like a human wishbone.

She doesn’t know what she is looking at, exactly. But she knows a daemon when she sees one.

She feels a heat against her bruised sternum, and looks down to see her amulet glowing.

She could cry for joy, even in the circumstances. Especially in the circumstances.

Oh thank you, Matron.

Lorkan_ crawls _up next to her, flat on his stomach, and she notices to her chagrin that he has taken the time to pull on his britches.

Wordlessly, he points, his face stricken with horror. She follows his outstretched finger, past the loping limb-beast, which scuttles around in search of new meat from its dwindling pool of victims.

The chest taken from the cart lies on its side, the wood crumpled outward and splintered. As though something **** its way out from within.

She claps a hand over her mouth to suppress a groan of horror, and at the same time the thing rears up on two limbs, four more searching the air like a blind man bereft of his cane. It stumbles closer.