wildestlogs | A Very Dank Side Quest

:Last time I got yeeted into the astral without a set destination, we got backlashed into a hell dimension.: Saturday tells Need. A few images come with it, leaking out around her best efforts to hold the door shut. A tortured figure (her father? feels like) in a cage; her hands, killing students, killing friends -

Saturday shakes it off with an irritated snort. :It's not my first choice. But it's there.:

The memory Guts shares doesn't spark any bright ideas from her. It's some kind of magic - looks shaman-y - that's all she's got. Elemental invocations are pretty common, and there's more magical schools where she's from than you could name in a lifetime. She leans in for a closer look at the Life and Death figures instead, raising a hand to trace their carved faces.

:I wonder if... I dunno. Like this was all made for some kind of ceremony or something that went wrong.:

Edited 2022-07-07 03:04 (UTC)

It's a strong, well-formed memory, offered up like a gift. Need lets herself soak in it for a moment, the details, the emotion. The pride and affection Guts feels and the bittersweet aspect of remembering someone who he's years apart from are heady. But she also really wants to get into the muscles of his eyelids and open them back up. He's confident of being able to hear anything moving around. She is not.

:I was using that,: she says to him of his eye, trying to keep centered and focused. Saturday is not offering her memory to share but some tantalizing, uncomfortable hints of the experience well up anyway. It might have to do with the girl's horror of possession. Need keeps her metaphorical hands to herself in both cases. :Well. Let's try not to let it come to the point of finding out.:

Not having more eyes out is aggravating. Normally even when there are few people there are animals, or spirits less bound to the livings' senses than Need is. Anything could be here and she just doesn't know.

:Less metaphor and more literal? The bodies fell like they'd been trying to get away from this spot or somewhere beyond it. The one you made a torch from had long ears.:

:Those carvings look familiar, too. I know 'em. I think.:

He obliges Need once the message is dispatched, opening and seeing only more dark ahead.

Saturday
Investigate: 88/15 (Fail)

As Saturday runs her fingers over the stone-cut relief, her hand touches a round shape in the center, a symbol worn away to nothingness by the ravages of time. The shape embeds itself into the dias, and the ground rumbles beneath their feet.

Another door? A secret passage? Maybe it would've been, a millenia ago. But rather than opening smoothly as the first door did, something in the great mechanism catches. Klunk. Klunk. Klunk. Metal screeches as if being forcefully torn apart.

A fissure cracks open the floor, all the way down the length of the massive building. Stone begins to crumble and fall apart, destabilizing all around them. The columns begin to crack, failing to maintain their support.

The roots, as if aware of this new opportunity, seem to move of their own accord, slowly spreading deeper into whatever ground was beneath them, accelerating the collapse.

Perception: 30/65 (Success)
Evasion (Agility): 47/45 (Fail)

Saturday spots the stone begin to collapse over her head, and her evasion is nearly perfect, but a piece of debris smashes against her shoulder and she takes 5 points of damage. Luckily, it is her non-sword arm.

Guts
Evasion (Melee): 87/45 (Fail)

Guts is less fortunate, having less room to move between the columns and the roots. He takes 20 points of damage from the impact of the stones, seeing white as one strikes the back of his head. A thin column splits over the flat of the Dragonslayer, acting as a shield on his back, but knocks him on all fours onto the rapidly disintegrating floor beneath them.

He is momentarily stunned, but apparently thick-headed enough to remain conscious.

Need
Perception: 15/60

The movement of the great roots leaves the astral currents around them in chaos. The physical realm is no better, covered with crumbling pebbles and clouds of dust. But Need is sharp, and between the two of them, she will glimpse an exit.

One of the hallways on the south wall of the building near Saturday, which is intact for the moment, seems to have some dim light at its end. An outside that is dark and poorly lit, but open nonetheless.

Edited 2022-07-08 06:44 (UTC)

She heard the noise after something was mistakenly activated, and now the enormous Gate-tendrils are slithering of their own accord and clearly have enough physical presence to weigh and push, but Need's first thought is 'earthquake'. Functionally it's not that different, with the added hazard of having to avoid those rootlike tendrils.

The urge to take over while Guts is stunned by a blow to the head is so strong that Need makes a muscle twitch in his thigh before she stops herself. If she was asleep and he were a woman, it would have happened, she would have got them moving. She's aware he has a frankly inhuman ability to function while battered much worse than this, or she would have now.

:Get up,: she urges instead, and makes a patch of skin on his heavy shoulder feel a phantom trace of heat and pressure, as if she had some outside existence and could lay a hand on him through his armor. Need can mitigate some of the effect of the blow, try and clear his vision faster, but not much more than that right now. :I can only move you one way and you won't like it, so get up. Come on, this way. You can't fight structural collapse.:

To Saturday Need says, :Let's get out before you two are crushed and I'm buried.: Given how undisturbed things had been here it could be millennia before she was found, longer than being lost at sea. She makes another arrow-suggestion. :There's a way out. Turn this direction.:

:Oh come on, I didn't even press it!: is what Saturday thinks, loudly, as she executes a nearly-perfect roll away from the debris. The stone that catches her shoulder barely registers; she works it a bit to keep it loose as she darts for the exit Need indicates. She stops when she reaches it, looking back, ready to do - something, if Guts can't make it. He's twice her size and thrice her weight, so she doesn't know what, exactly, but she'll figure it out when she gets there.

Constitution: 62/75 (60 + 15 Boost from Need!)

The armor on his body nearly erases the pain, but the dizzying, nauseous feeling leaves him seeing double. Need’s voice leads him back to reality, like the loud toll of a brazen bell in the fog. He becomes acutely aware of the cold rock under his hands and knees, the dust in his mouth, the annoying pelting of small rocks on his back. The phantom hand on his shoulder makes his skin crawl. He’d never get used to that - neither the touching nor the ghostly place it came from.

:I’m up!: the thought is shouted in his head as he sways back up to his feet. Blood was streaking down the right side of his head and face. It looked much worse than it was, as shallow cuts to the scalp typically did.

He charges ahead, following the guidance of the sword and Saturday’s form at the end of the hall.

Need makes that hallucinatory sense of touch shift and lighten before it's gone, as if she'd knelt at his side and as he heaved upright her hand dropped away. Guts doesn't like the contact but he'll forgive it. And probably he's easier with her presence at all if he thinks of her as something that stands besides him than if he dwells on her being under his skin and behind his eyes. :Good. Stay up! I'll do what I can about the concussion. Yes - that way, you see her - good.:

Even a minor brain injury takes a delicate and urgent touch, especially when the one sporting it's got to keep moving and may need to fight. She's not going to bother with the superficial splits in his scalp yet. When possible she likes to let wounds bleed enough to wash out contaminants before she closes them so they don't get trapped under re-forming skin, anyway.

Need also has a dim sense of what the armor's doing and knows it's hypocritical of her not to like it. Still.

At the same time, she laughs dourly for Saturday's complaint. :Bet if you'd even slapped the mural nearby it would've got set off. Now back up, he's coming fast. It's better than it looks. Boy's got a thick skull.:

Perception Roll
Saturday: 3 (Success)
Need: 36 (Success)

The deep rumbling of the collapse slows to a stop as they find momentary shelter in the hallway. Beyond thick plumes of dust and the crunch of a loosened brick or two hitting the ground, their path ahead would be unobstructed. Behind them, their access to the mysterious chamber is closed off by debris.

Ahead lies the quiet corpse of a ruined city. Or a piece of a city, would be more accurate - a central square that had once been blanketed by a bright sun. Down a squat flight of stairs, the entrance of the destroyed Basilica expands outwards, flanked by other buildings built in a similar Roman style. Beyond the distant howl of trapped wind, there was little left but the dusty structural bones, overtaken by glowing tree roots and fallen boulders. The vista overhead is entirely dark, with no hints of clouds or stars. Instead of a sky sat the dim, pale blue of the roots occasionally bouncing off a solid tomb of bedrock.

At their feet, dry corpses lie staring back at them, mouths agape, all bearing the mark of sacrifice. In some places they lie in massive piles, bodies left astrewn carelessly. A misplaced step would make them crack and disintegrate like driftwood.

Saturday notices the skittering of feet within the ruins, running away from the Basilica like rats. They would have been able to run off undetected had she not caught the light at just the right angle, seeing a pair of wide, bug-like eyes staring back at her. It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but they appeared to be roughly man-sized, on the lean and spindly side, but with far too many limbs.

Need, through her eyes, could sense that beyond their monstrous appearance, there was something vaguely human deep within their souls. Twisted far beyond the point of recovery, the creatures continued onward with their previous lives forgotten. Condemned by their inhuman transformation.

Both of them could sense that they were outnumbered by the things, which had chosen to keep their distance for the moment being.

Edited 2022-07-24 03:03 (UTC)

Saturday takes in the city at a glance, noticing none of the aesthetics and all of the places an ambush could lurk. There's more than she likes. She does note the lack of clouds and stars, and spends a moment squinting upwards, wondering. The kaer they'd explored in the Theran bubble realm had had chambers as vast as this, all underground to shield them from the Enemy above. Maybe it was something like that, if they are actually underground and not in, who knows, some reality where a giant goddamned wolf ate the sun or whatever in an entirely literal way. Or some pissy god with a bone to pick decided to plunge the world into darkness on a whim. Etc, etc.

Travel is so broadening.

:We got company: she tells the others. :They don't seem hostile, for now:

Saturday has been to such interesting places. Dimly, Need is aware that she once would have been disturbed by this scene and those hints in the girl's mind. Well. Nothing for it.

She reaches after the minds of the ducking insectlike creatures. The continued spiritual and magical turbulence trouble her, make her pull back out of caution before she can make more than the most glancing contact. But there's something telling about that contact. Memories well up, of the aftermath of the Cataclysm. It had left vast tracts of territory in which living things had twisted and combined into new, often unrecognizable 'plants' and 'animals'. Need had been able to determine which ones had incorporated people. The lucky ones had entirely lost their minds.

:More of them than there are us. I have news that may not surprise you,: she says dryly. :They're either mutated humans or descended from humans. In the degraded sense. But we've got a moment and I should broach something else, children.: Her reluctance is palpable.

This whole time she works as delicately as she knows how, preventing swelling, directing blood flow, performing all those minute tasks that she's learned help the impossibly intricate tissue inside of a skull. It will help with the nausea and vertigo, the blurring vision. Guts has got to be able to think and act - the scalp splits, the bruise on the back of his head, the bit of neck strain, those are all secondary.

Need has paused markedly. She makes herself go on. :You both know I'm a spirit, I hope. These poor wretches here were probably alive more recently than I was. The point is, I can possess people who carry my sword. I would have a moment ago if the boy had lost consciousness, to get him out before things collapsed on us. And then I would have let go. I always let go. Children, I know you hate the idea, but I want you to survive blacking out.:

She has conflicting feelings about possessing either of them. The wanting never wholly goes away, but neither does the denial of that drive. Need puts so much effort into not seeing living people as 'mortals' to feed herself with that even when she's asleep, even when she drives people to her own ends, she never takes them over for long.

Guts follows behind Saturday, regaining his composure as the last pebbles of the building peck him on the way out. Somehow, the old lady's made the throbbing pain in his head lessen significantly. Looks like he owes another debt to healing magic.

The bleeding side of his head felt cold in the cavernous city, hair matted against his skull. He wipes the blood and sweat from his brow, smearing his forearm with bright red, and tenses up as the images leak into his mind's eye. His brand was still numb, but there's nothing else around here that could be triggering the faint ebb and flow of the sting.

:Pseudo-apostles.: His teeth lock together, a spike of aggression rolling through the armor as if it were a living skin on his body. He has tempered it enough to keep it down, but he mounts his crossbow onto his prosthesis with the clangour of its locking mechanism. If they get close, he'll kill them. Negotiating doesn't seem like an option floating through his head.

:Listen, if you using magic to pull me out saves our hides, then do it. Wouldn't keep you on me if I couldn't trust you.: He hates the thought of it, but if he was unconscious, what choice did they have? Need would have to take the reins, and there wasn't time to fuss in a fight.

:Could we talk to them, then? A friendly local contact would be great.: Saturday, on the other hand, is thinking primarily of negotiation and barter. Everyone need or wants something, after all; at the moment, her gang needs a clue. A way to the surface, or some idea why they were brought here. And what could lizardbugs need? She'd bet protection or food, or some other kind of resource. Hopefully something simple. They don't look like a sophisticated bunch, but that doesn't mean much. Appearances deceive, and even very simple people can get caught up in complicated matters.

Need's next question takes her by surprise.

:Well, yeah. Obviously I consent to having my life saved.: Saturday is about to add "who wouldn't?" and then Alloran crosses her mind. :Thanks for asking, though. Sorry in advance if you see anything fucked up in there.:

:Too far away for me to tell right now but I'll see what I can pick up if they come closer. If they're hostile, try and take one alive so I can look in its head,: Need says, dipping into Guts' memories like a pickpocket to confirm what 'pseudo-apostle' means. She has a distant pity for people transformed by demons, and a bit of frustration as well. Usually she can free such victims and restore them to the bodies they had before, but they have to have enough mind left to want that. But body affects brain affects mind and if it's been a long time... :Wonder if it means anything that these corpses are still intact. You saw earlier, they'd fall apart if someone walked through.:

Guts trusts her? Oh. Well. Yes, obviously, he's been carrying her around off and on for months. Somehow saying it, though, and more or less in Mindspeech where a lie is transparently obvious, where it feels intently evident that it outweighs his horror of not being in control of his body and actions? Need is overtaken by a wellspring of deep, helpless love that she clamps down on, not wanting to look like a total stars-lost sop that melts at a compliment. A bit makes it through anyway, what hopefully looks like normal levels of appreciation.

She doesn't know Saturday as well but that's pretty nice too, the lack of bristling and hedging about it when this is clearly a sore spot for her as well. Need doesn't vow to do right by the two of them, she was going to do right by them even if they'd dug in their heels and snapped when she brought it up. Even so.

:Yes, well. Don't get upset if you wake up from something and aren't holding the reins,: she says gruffly, and makes a general all-around pass working on the injury that heavy stone did to Guts. As a last note she tells the torn blood vessels in his skin to hurry it up with the scab formation. :Don't pick at your head or it'll start bleeding again. This is good enough for now. Give me to the girl for a minute at least, I want to address her shoulder.:

:Woudn’t get my hopes up. No pseudo-apostle’s ever stopped to chat.:

Angry lines form between his brows, all those brushes with death marked on both his body and mind. Mozgus, the “elves”, the Slug Count’s thrall with tendrils melting from every crack in his plate mail.

They were intelligible, but they were monsters, same as their larger and more gruesome masters. He’d be doing them a favor by ending their servitude.

His jaw relaxes with a strange wave of affection from Need, ending the dark rumination. Right. He should pass her on to Saturday. Gratitude for the spirit sits in his chest as he unties the leather straps to hand over the blade.

:Here. For the old lady’s healing magic.:

Edited 2022-07-31 19:13 (UTC)

:Ah, thanks:.

Saturday accepts the sword and shifts a little, bracing for the odd tingly feeling that magic healing always gives her. Her breath settles unconsciously into a calming rhythm, her own magic tucking itself politely out of the way with the ease of long practice.

(It doesn't occur to her to warn Need that the magic sword which also serves as her prosthetic also has a mind; Elder Brother is a deep sleeper, rarely waking for anything less than a mortal threat, and the last time he'd spoken he'd said he might not have the strength to do it again for years)

:Maybe they don't come over here because they don't know the passage is here. Or they're scared of the place.:

She reaches out with her sixth sense as Need works, trying to get a bead on the little bug dudes. If they are hostile, then their flight from the group probably isn't a good thing. A trap, or reinforcements...

:Careful - there we go,: Need says, as there's any chance Guts will just shove her point and edges at his friend. Not having a scabbard to protect people from her sharp bits makes her constantly think of the ancient concept called friendly fire. The avalanche-boy can just carry her bare on his belt because of that ill-omened armor, but without it he would have been cut several times already. That his absurd armory door of a sword is always naked is a constant irritant when there are people around who might be close enough to be cut or bludgeoned by him turning suddenly. Yes, he's offputting and they usually give him enough space that it's not an issue. No, she never stops running that scenario.

Saturday's arm-which-is-a-sword had some interesting magic to it, something Need had picked up on earlier and had a better sense of with time in proximity. She doesn't feel the presence in it until Saturday touches her with it, and when she does it's enough to fully divert her attention for several seconds. It's not like her, a human soul transmuted by time spend bound to a magic weapon. Her initial impression is of dry heat and great, reptilian strength, and incompleteness, and an enduring affection between it and its bearer.

It's deep in slumber in a way she finds familiar. Her dormancy comes about when she's drained the reserves she uses to keep herself able to think or has gone too long without sensory input or contact with other people, and she remains active in many ways even sleeping. This feels different. Need thinks she could rouse it if she made the effort, but she's not sure it would remain awake. She pickpockets emotion and a name - 'Elder Brother'? - from Saturday without shame. The girl is far less ambivalent about it than Guts is about his armor.

To be sure this is interesting, and if Need felt reasonably safe she would probe Saturday for details or, it's probably better just to ask a lot of questions. Then she might try to wake it. As it is, she has the definite sense that right now they are in a lull rather than secure at all. Better move on.

Meanwhile the rest of her attention has been dedicated to the work of healing. A shoulder isn't a brain but of all the joints and muscles in the human body it's the most intricate and fragile and Saturday's had taken quite a blow. If that rock had connected with her head, Need believes it would have fractured her skull, as is softer tissues took most of the impact. She sorts their damage much more quickly and drives a frisson of new vitality through the girl's blood.

:You can pass me back, otherwise you've got to keep one hand full of my hilt. I wish I hadn't had to leave my sheath and swordbelt back at that castle, but that child would do poorly here,: Need grouses, giving no indication of how thoroughly she had been distracted.

:They could be scurryin' off to an exit.:

Or to their master- The second thought floats in his head quietly and maliciously. Even after all this time setting aside his original quest, the hatred for apostles still smoulders deeply in him.

Perception: 87/65 (Fail)

His eyes weren't what they used to be, unkind as battling in the armor was for them, and he didn't quite catch any more of the bug-men as they scuttle away. The tug of the brand was only enough to give him the vague direction he caught before, and nothing more.

:Let's go. They went this way, right?: He trudges ahead to the front of the group, staring into the familiar pitch blackness for any movement among the pillars and detritus. It's been a while since he'd participated in a hunt like this. It felt coldly familiar, despite the strange surroundings.

Edited 2022-08-10 05:47 (UTC)

Perception
Saturday 9/65 (Success)
Need 42/60 (Success)

In the maze of murky ruins, Saturday manages to hone in on the distant skittering of insect feet. The scrape of claws on stone. The bug-men are stealthy and hard to see in the dark, but their vibrations aren't immutable. They glide beneath a half-broken stone arch Southeast of the group, scaling up rubble and disappearing into a hole bored into the solid rock.

The mixture of emotion is difficult to discern, more pensive than hostile. Some more inclined to kill, but merely following the tide of the rest.

For Need, a single thought percolates in all their heads strong enough to reach her, like a staccatto chord struck loud enough to rise above the noise of its orchestra.

Elisaria. Elisaria!
Lady Elisaria.

... Guest? Intruder. Kill?

Elisaria!

Must tell...

Some aspect of Need responds to Guts and his buried, ugly eagerness. Certainly she's been part of more demon-hunts than she can actually remember. In Velgarth, a demon was never human and typically dwells on a different plane, but for her too they are associated with carnage, and are powerful and cruel and inflicted upon the vulnerable, and can shrug off ordinary weapons. Awake or in the hands of a warrior Need is a hard counter to them, their magic, and their summoners. Of course she has to answer when there's a trace of a demon about.

She mistrusts her own response immediately. This isn't Velgarth. It seems more familiar to Guts but it might not be his home plane either. She's been weakened such that a great deal of slow-won power is again out of her grasp, or unreliable if she can touch it at all. Need is absolutely not going to just rush into some major confrontation when she hasn't even felt the desperation of someone under her purview.

:There's some differing opinions there on us and what to do. They're not all knee-jerk hostile. Some want to kill us, I caught the word 'guest' but not if that's actually worse. They're off to tell a 'Lady Elisaria' about us. Hang on, son,: she rasps, and this time it is 'son' and not 'boy' but she doesn't stop to make anything of it. :What are our priorities here? You could both use some water, I can taste dust in your throats.:

It's not a creepy thing to say at all under any circumstances, but even if the living aren't perishing of thirst yet they've had to keep breathing through all this so far.

:We need to figure out food, water, shelter. Then we need to figure out where the hell we are: Saturday responds, having been worrying about this since they arrived. :Maybe we got stuck here on accident, maybe someone did it on purpose. Either way, we're on the back foot right now. Reacting. We need to get to a position where we can act.:

She shifts, watching the lizards swarm up the cliff, remembering other times, other places. Amazing how fast you can get used to this shit - dumped in another universe with no supplies and no clue, must be fuckin' Tuesday. Her instincts are clear on what comes next. Keep cool. Stay low. Watch, learn, survive. Wait.

She swallows a little, Need's words reminding her of the thirst and hunger she's been putting aside. Mild things now, but they'll get worse.

:Water, especially. We can make do without food for a while, but you don't get more than a day or so without water.:

His face relaxes somewhat when Need addresses him like that. Guts wasn't all violent urge and no brains. Not when he had his wits about him, anyway. There is a complicated mote of emotion at the word, something he compartmentalizes away under the more practical need to find out where the hell they are. Now's not the time to get cagey about the reciprocated familiarity.

:I've weathered worse.: the thought bounces back to the lykeblade, brushing off her concern. Unlike Saturday, he wants to pursue. Fight while he still had the effects of a day's rest and meals in his bones. Sitting back and waiting seemed to waste precious time. What happens when 'Night' falls in this place? If it truly was his world, they would be unlikely to get a minute of sleep. Even if the creatures don't ambush them, there might be spirits in their place.

:I've got some dried rations with me. It ain't much, it'll keep us going a while longer. I say we keep moving.:

This is a situation where Need can see both sides, or at least, stopping to look for water and other priorities doesn't mean they'd find it. If they don't, the time and effort spent would have them worse off and, yes, possibly ambushed when the inevitable confrontation comes. She's been in the senses of the living, listening for the sound of water moving or dripping, trying to catch scent of it, to use her own less tangible senses to pick up on the lives of more mundane insects and other animals as would cluster around a regular source of moisture. Nothing is promising yet. It's so dry in here that nothing as lively as rot is happening.

It's deeply, deeply irritating that they were all drawn here without a chance to prepare. Need misses being able to conjure things. Yes, she wants people to be able to find everything themselves, but it's nice to have it as an option.

:You're both good for a while longer, but it's harder on the girl,: she tells Guts. At least, Saturday's not ignoring it. Need's nature is a cautious one, she doesn't like the head on approach even when she can see sense in it. To both she says, :I don't know if demon-altered insect people have to drink and there's water where they're going. In Velgarth it's extremely difficult to alter something to the point where it doesn't need food and water. Don't know if that's true here.:

:If they're made of meat they gotta be eating and drinking something. Flesh needs fuel. And her flesh needs slightly more than most. An accelerated metabolism is one of the side-effects of her particular kind of adepthood. Her magic is embedded in her body, twined through every bone, nerve, vein and sinew; every time her body moves, for any reason, a little magic takes its toll. That's not the case for every adept, but she'd never spent much time on the arts of endurance. She'd never expected to be less than fifty feet from a vending machine or street stall ever in her life.

If she ever finds another adept again, she's going to stalk them until they teach her the only-eat-and-eliminate-once-a-day trick. Her past self was an arrogant tit for calling it a party trick

:Even if we can't eat their food, water is water. It'll buy us more time. And it's not like we're actually doing anything useful or productive, here. We haven't died, which is great, but we still don't know where we are or how we got here or how to get out of here. I don't think my ancestors are gonna be super impressed by 'Well, I just kinda wandered around in this big maze fighting monsters until I keeled over from exhaustion, making no attempt to survive or self-rescue.':

She sits back on her heels, crossing her arms over her knees.

:So far, these little dudes are the only things that haven't attacked us on sight. They're able to think, possibly speak, and have some kind of purpose or leader, one that's canny enough to have them observe and report instead of attack on sight. Anything intelligent can be negotiated with. I say we follow the little dudes, weapons sheathed, and see what happens. If things go sour, we can still always fight our way out.:

She looks up at Guts with a truly evil grin.

:And hey, maybe they're edible. Push comes to shove.:

She's only mostly taking the piss.

Guts exhales, like the previous urge to fight had seeped out with his breath. Saturday’s suggestion seems to placate that side of him that wanted to break the bug-men open like crab shells.

“Alright.”

He settles in by leaning against a broken stone arch beside her. Did apostles need to eat and drink? He ponders the question. They certainly liked indulging themselves, and passed on some of their vile essence into their minions.

Guess there was only one way to find out.

:We follow them to their nest, only attack when they get hostile. :

He figures they will, it would only be a matter of time.

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THE FORUM

Re: THE FORUM

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