(no subject)
Blood droplets cover the cliff face underneath him, dripping from his ruined gloves and boots, but he keeps climbing. The wind is freezing, coating the sheer cliff, already suffering from a lack of handholds or places to push against with his feet, in a sheet of ice. Steam no longer rises from him, and his breath is a thin panting.
But Pierre doesn't give up. He doesn't give in. He keeps climbing, as he has the entire cliff face. He lacks any sort of equipment to climb up it, or to return, but such things would only weigh him down. Though he'd never admit it, he knows that if he stops here, he may as well just let go and drop the hundreds of feet to the ground.
But he doesn't give up. He's only got a few dozen feet left. A few yards. A few feet. A few inches, and he's over the lip. The former General of the Dark Kingdom rolls over onto solid ground, breathing heavily, and scrunches until his back meets another cliff face. One he doesn't need for now, there's a cave right next to him. He looks over, spotting the snow-capped Himalayas, and snorts before pushing himself into the cave away from the freezing winds.
Reaching for his belt, he grabs one of three things strapped to it. A canteen. With shaking hands, he opens it up and tilts it to his mouth, only to receive nothing from it. The water's frozen. He stares at the canteen for a long moment, then just laughs, tossing it aside and wiping his face, leaving thin streaks of red across it. "Oh." Wow. That kind of hurt. Maybe he shouldn't be laughing. "And so the little brother found himself at the dragon's mouth once again." Ha. "Perhaps, he wonders, his elders were correct and he was in over his head."
...
"Fuck that. I'm French." And with that statement, he pushes himself to his feet and glances around, trying to find his canteen. Don't tell him he'd tossed it over the cliff...
But Pierre doesn't give up. He doesn't give in. He keeps climbing, as he has the entire cliff face. He lacks any sort of equipment to climb up it, or to return, but such things would only weigh him down. Though he'd never admit it, he knows that if he stops here, he may as well just let go and drop the hundreds of feet to the ground.
But he doesn't give up. He's only got a few dozen feet left. A few yards. A few feet. A few inches, and he's over the lip. The former General of the Dark Kingdom rolls over onto solid ground, breathing heavily, and scrunches until his back meets another cliff face. One he doesn't need for now, there's a cave right next to him. He looks over, spotting the snow-capped Himalayas, and snorts before pushing himself into the cave away from the freezing winds.
Reaching for his belt, he grabs one of three things strapped to it. A canteen. With shaking hands, he opens it up and tilts it to his mouth, only to receive nothing from it. The water's frozen. He stares at the canteen for a long moment, then just laughs, tossing it aside and wiping his face, leaving thin streaks of red across it. "Oh." Wow. That kind of hurt. Maybe he shouldn't be laughing. "And so the little brother found himself at the dragon's mouth once again." Ha. "Perhaps, he wonders, his elders were correct and he was in over his head."
...
"Fuck that. I'm French." And with that statement, he pushes himself to his feet and glances around, trying to find his canteen. Don't tell him he'd tossed it over the cliff...