[center][h2][color=lightslategray] - Everett W. Luden -[/color][/h2][/center][center][color=firebrick][i]Scratched up, waterlogged and dizzy[/i][/color][color=lightslategray]  -  [/color][color=steelblue][i]Confused, in a mild degree of shock[/i][/color][/center]
[center][hider=Appearance - minus bandage][img]http://i2.wp.com/petapixel.com/assets/uploads/2013/07/wanted2.jpg?resize=620,408[/img][/hider][/center]

Having faded in and out of consciousness for what seemed like only a few minutes past, Everett clung tightly to an eviscerated piece of wooden siding. It must have been the mere response of his hands, a feat of self-preservation by his flesh, latching on to the splintered hull piece that kept him above water, for he possessed neither the strength nor total awareness needed to grasp it on his own. He could feel nothing, but could tell by the audible lapping of water by his ears that he was nigh submerged in water. He'd been subject to this before - that sensation of being [i]almost[/i] alive. Fearing perhaps that he'd received some blow to his head, the same instinctual hand with its instinctual reaction tapped the wood piece lazily trying to navigate to his cranium. When Everett finally reached it and ran his hand through the water, oil and blood soaked fibers of his short hair, affirmation though achieved, it was too late for him to realize that removing his hand from its prior position had loosened him off the slimy flank of broken ship, and he slipped under the water.


For a few moments his limp corpse sank into the green-brown waters of the Miskatonic, the film of oil on his clothes and skin beginning to detach and lift from him. His eyelids lifted, at first struggling like a strongman lifting some ungodly weight, until they rose to meet his brow. In a failed attempt to eject the water from his lungs while already several feet below the surface, he grabbed at his chest in pain, calling upon the pool of energy that is doled out by adrenaline and using it to propel himself to the surface. His head threw itself backwards as Everett coughed, gasped and cried, his arms breaching the water and flailing to keep afloat.

Spitting oil-laden Miskatonic from his mouth, he was greeted by a sight that was scathing and appalling to behold. Bright, nubile flames burnt as in small pyres across the width of the river, with pieces of debris, chunks of ship and a visible oil slick fueling them with small impunity. Smoke from these pyres, as well as from a larger fire some distance downriver from he, smothered the air above him. Some of the tall grass which lined the sides of the river had be singed by small infernos, though the area was far too moist to allow the licking flames to expand out from the water. Everett waded in the water a moment, taking in the disastrous sight with now-wide opened and red eyes. The Almira, the old, time-trusted inland steamship whose freight of lumber was now either burning or laying still upon the bed of the Miskatonic, had not merely ran aground and sunk – [i]she had erupted[/i].

Everett paddled, panicked towards the river bank, his head dipping beneath the water several times. Occasionally his head would turn for a brief moment to see, lingering in the horizon above the small fires that clawed desperately for bits of wood and fuel in the water, the smoke-shined sun that glared at him like some apocalyptic red eye. Still, he struggled to eject water from his lungs as he floundered through the thick waters to reach a landing of mud, rock and trodden grass. Tall, almost ancient red oaks stood apart from the river beginning a tree line some yards away, leaning slightly in the winter breeze and catching bits of airborne ash. Tossing himself to dirt of the river bank, he rolled over onto his back, coughing up the last few gulps of water that sat in his chest.  When air could pass somewhat unimpeded through his lungs and nose, he took several deep breaths, allowing some trace energy to return to him. Everett began trying to move each part of his body independently, coming across nothing but some rattled joints and water-washed gashes evenly distributed across him. The water had already ran out of his pockets, making apparent that he still had his knife and marlinspike in the shape of a lump in the side of his coat. Propping himself up with shaking arms, he looked one last time out at the smoldering river before trying to stand up. He couldn’t recall anything about the wreck, which Everett found neither surprising nor particularly unlucky for him. As the small blazes were slowly extinguished by the ebbing river waters, and the evil, almost sanguine sun continued to set, he rose, staggering, to his feet. 

Turning away from the carnage, Everett shambled through the grass towards a makeshift dirt path visible some ways off. Whether it was the spirits of his shipmates, the ill-looking sun or some other malevolent presence behind him, he could distinguish clearly through his shock the sense that he was being watched.