Location: Mt. Lumina.
Side: Outlands.
Open for: All Outlanders
The thing that separates Mount Lumina from everywhere else that Splint finds himself lost in, is exactly that. He can get lost – the Sky Cliffs are a little too known now, most crevasses climbed; busy with those training to slip through without having to engage in the usual banterful and aggravating conversation that he lives for. Arcadia’s busy, lively – like there’s something a little more than grey clouds overhead that they’re hiding; not their fault, his more than theirs. Practically blameless is the citizens when it’s not their directive to act and protect to the same degree those who had jobs that day were – Splint wonders what Rory and River are thinking of them now.
Boots scratch the dusty floor between uneven openings of Lumina, Flint’s trying to recall his steps as he makes them – so he can find his way out again, crawls into small openings, ducks and dives under the more jagged of edges as streams of light don’t quite make all that’s ahead visible. He’s caught his bow on a couple rocks already, has to manoeuvre to compensate for it and his quiver strapped to his backside because he simply refused to leave it behind. There’s this rumbling he’s sure he can hear, shakes the cliffs under his hand as the chalky outer layer of Lumina brushes off on his palms and leaves them an off shade of orange – reminds him of some kind of sandstone; at least busies his mind from everything else.
Until that rumbling loudens beyond the point of ignorance.
Comes at him fast as he clambers over a dusty rock and hears it levelling off above him.
Landslide – or at least, a weakened part of the Mount coming down. Instincts kick in, he dives forward along the thin lane, rolls without thinking of how much momentum he’s given and hears the crashing of shattering rocks behind him – a sharp pain that nicks at the back of his calf when he spins around to see the damage. Hopes its not enough to block off his route.
But he sees a figuration first.
“Hey – move!” Shit. Lurches forward like he’s some goddamn hero who won’t feel the pain of crumbling rocks if they hit him, Splinter collides with something – whether it’s the person, he’s got no idea, but there’s no agony, yet.
Apollo hits the ground, grunts at the force, one arm above his head as though trying to stop the any major damages before he assesses the situation. He’s still calling out: “Are you blind? – I mean, OK, but –” he’s stammering because he’s panting; rise in adrenaline where he’s gradually realising the ranger might have to come up with a new exit strategy from the Lumina. Doesn’t even think about how he’s still practically on the floor himself. “Are you OK, is what I mean,”
