"Don't Step In The Eldritch Puke." [Greed]
The creature known as The Feaster From Afar took out most of the doorframe as it crashed its way out of the Gluttony Dining Hall, thundering after Sophia and Will and Harley, part of a porcine waiter's leg still hanging from its mouth
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"Finders keepers, motherfuckers!"
BLAM.
Sophia (toting a backpack and a purseful of looted goods) really doesn't handle that shotgun very well -- the recoil has sent her tumbling more than once -- but she found it, it's hers, and she's going to use it!
The pursuing horde down to just a couple of zombies by the time they get into eyeshot of Hastur, and she laughs as she tries to brain one with the barrel of the empty gun.
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Will has managed to find himself a nice axe and while it lacks the range of a gun, it does colour co-ordinate (red and green, all the way) and it's a little more personal. :D
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Great. He's still in this wretched hellhole. Hastur forces his eyes open and then rolls over onto his back to actually get a look at what's going on. Ordinarily, he'd be comforted by the sight of all this gold and saffron and yellow, but right now it just reminds him that he's in yet another colour-co-ordinated level of that wretched purple idiot's game.
He watches a gold frog hop by. Then several more, bouncing and hopping over him in a herd. He blinks curiously.
Is the shouting coming closer?
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"THIS! Is my BOOMSTICK!"
She's still laughing as she runs backward, and trips quite grandly over Hastur.
SquelcAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!! is the noise, by the way, that an Osborn makes when they fall in a puddle of eldritch vomit.
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"You need to relax into the recoil, let it move with your hips." Oh, lovely. Will is, ah, 'demonstrating'.
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"... Ow."
He sits up blearily, even more tattered, bedraggled, and bloodstained than he was when they saw him last, and a bit green, too. It's ... not quite a green that matches well with all the yellow. That's the only way one can tell him apart from his surroundings--his green gills and the blood on his robes and in his hair.
He gives Will a look usually reserved for one beholding the mind-numbing shenanigans of publicly intoxicated starlets. "I came round for this?"
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Nevermind the blood and the zombieguts. It's the puke that gets her.
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He scoots himself away from Sophia and drags himself to his feet. Maybe not a good idea. He sways dizzily before regaining his balance.
Then he eyes them. They sure did resupply in a hurry. "What'd you two do, loot a mall?"
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"There's a bunch of broken-into shops back there." She points vaguely in the right direction. "You can go get some stuff for yourself if you want. This is mine." She clutches the gun possessively, as she fumbles with more shells.
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One moment, there's a little, yappy dog coming and it really needs to get punted over the 40 yard line. "Never trust a dog you can fit into a microwave."
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Material objects never really held much importance for the Eldritch. He disregards both Sophia's and Will's possessions for the time being and starts to slope off in the direction of said shops. "Me for a shower and a bicarbonate of soda," he moans.
He doesn't stay bleary for long, though, as something skeletal and wearing far too much makeup for its own zombified condition comes his way, overlong claws on its beringed hands bared, hissing through pointed teeth behind its red-painted lips. Its fur coat moves lumpily over its bony frame.
"Oh, fhtagn." He sends it flying with a concussive blast that also leaves him reeling. Not a good thing, as a few more zombies are behind it.
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But it manages to wing the zombie's shoulder, separating it from its arm and most of its ribcage and sending the rest of it flying backward. It gives a yowl of rage as it tries to right itself, possibly more at the damage done to the coat than the damage done to its body.
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"Let's leave Mean Mr. Mustard with his skinny new friends."
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