Raleigh Holter Theron
"Afraid of the darkness of the unknown, the spaces in which we see only dimly, we often choose the darkness of closed eyes, of obliviousness." — Rebecca Solnit, Men Explain Things to Me
The entire instance came and went like the sand beneath his feet. Words were spoken, but not heard, only a few remaining quite within conscious reach that he grasped as he fell. The situation was clear from the start, as Erin had pointed out, there was no trouble in explaining that. Being in a fantasy world an entire lifetime meant certain inexplicable things became commonplace—this was one of those inexplicable moments. Mythology, any kind of text speaking of Gods really, usually spoke of spite and wrath, rather than benevolence and love. Such truths didn't bode well for humankind; wrathful beings only had one default mode and that was vindictive.
Falling from unimaginable heights came to no surprise in the back of Raleigh's mind, however his expression felt the need to betray him and his pulse quickened the longer and faster he fell. He hit a slope, a slant of concrete slab that bruised and scrapped him from top down toward the inevitable pit. Spats of dirt and rock clogged his throat and the aching throb that raced through his body came to Raleigh's immediate attention. Crimson coated his hands, knees, face even and his rib hurt most of all; it made breathing uncomfortable, but not intolerable. However, the first response as he came to, aside from the cough, spit, and groan succeeding his fall, was to grasp the key chain hanging from his belt loop and then standing as his fingers unlatched it. The bow sprang forth, nearly dropping as a sharp pain spilled from his side to throb in his head. A low huff slipped, breathless from his lips and Raleigh clung a free hand to the wound. It wasn't broken, but anymore unwanted pressure to it and it would be.
The next step in his makeshift plan—winging it—came in frantic gazes to his immediate surroundings. The area was tight, like a corridor that served more as a cage than an actual passageway. That seemed like the intention. Even architects had a way of conveying some kind of sub-textual meaning in the way they deliberately placed their blueprints; the walls seemed laden with the word claustrophobia, lined in the cracks and fractures that were ceaseless as they ran down the length of the hall. Great work, jackasses, the thought ran through Raleigh's head, Let's make our one purpose suffocating the shit out of everyone who steps foot here. From the look of it, not many people really found themselves ass end of no where in a field of walls. The creativity of deities ceased to amaze to Raleigh.
"One step at a time," he breathed. He paid no attention to the walls as they seemed to shrink in on him, preferring the solitude of closed eyes. This would end perfectly fine, if he had a say in it. But, as fate would have it, most of the time mortals or even half mortals didn't have a say in anything. The positives of having one's literal lifeline in the hands of untrustworthy, just-as-vindictive-as-a-god hags. There was no denying most immortal beings, whichever mythology they came from, were likely self-righteous, triggerhappy assholes with a propensity for smiting. Guess this one lived up to those expectations, found a thrill in it. As to why that didn't surprise him, Raleigh had a million guesses.
It wasn't until crackling and a faint, low hiss, like something was dragging behind him, caught his attention did Raleigh realize the danger he'd been immediately thrust in. The walls were moving rapidly inward, meaning that claustrophobic feeling wasn't just paranoia—well, it was, but it was justified, which was the difference. The exit just in front of him was a quick sprint away, but the walls didn't wait for his thoughts to collect themselves. Raleigh dashed forward, expression knotting into furrowed brows and clenched jaws. His footfalls thumped hard on the solid slab of ground beneath him, quickening in pace the closer the walls got to atomizing him into nonexistence. The faster he ran, the quicker the walls closed in and he sooner found himself sliding feet first into the intersection, using all the force he could muster to propel his upper body forward just as the walls shut tight, expelling a cloud of dust in its wake and a low, rumbling thud that coursed deep into Raleigh's being.
That nightmare over, Raleigh felt the full effects of the adrenaline subsiding, his back clad against what used to be a hallway and his arms raised, hands resting atop windswept hair. The bow, he looked, laid beside him, unharmed and unaffected by the quickening pulse and the gasps for air that squeezed his lungs tight with every breath. Pain flared with each gasp, but Raleigh paid it no heed, happy to be alive and resting for even just a second.
Raleigh was intelligent, though, or at least had the common sense to get up, in spite of the burn inside his chest and the ache in his calves. Something was bound to show up, whether by happenstance or dumb, stupid luck—Murphy's Law dictated it. Not much deliberating was put into moving in forward, or in his case, down the west end of yet another stretch of claustrophobia. Whoever he'd landed with were bound to be around somewhere and Murphy's Law also dictated he soon find them, if nothing found him first.
Blue eyes kept vigilant and both hands and weapons were at the ready. Luck, people would soon learn, didn't quite exist in Greek Mythology—this was no exception.
