Well, whoever was here did a damn good job of rigging this shit up so it looks normal. Not great. That's not gonna go well.
He didn't get a good look at the outside, but he saw enough to know this don't match. Clue number two that everything is real wrong is how a bunch of people that look nothin' like him go walkin' by him like it's nothin'. How a vendor comes up to him and offers him something to eat that, when he holds it to his nose, doesn't smell great.
"Yeah, I think this is a li'l' out of my price range. Y'all notice somethin' a little off here?" A pause. "Nothin' at all?"
"Oh, there's a few problems out at the farms but since the demons left things have been great."
How the everlovin' hell is he going to have the patience to talk someone through this? He folds his hands in front of his nose, taking in a deep breath. "Fella, you notice anything off about me?"
The guy stares at him. Squints. Scrunches up his whole face. "...Is this a trick question? Are you famous?"
It's been less than five minutes and he's already rearing to get pissed off.
The Catacombs Act I
After a shitload of convincing, Yondu's finally got a group together and he's leading them into the catacombs.
Oddly enough he's not used his arrow to kill or even threaten anyone in a solid three weeks. Literally the longest he's gone without havin' to. He doesn't know if it's relaxing or he's itching for a fight, but it's at least still useful. The fin on his head is lit up, strobing threads of light as he "looks" ahead.
The people behind him are starting to register that it's not normal that he's leaving red light on the dark walls. That what he's holding in his hand leaving a trail of brilliance behind it, illuminating the path, isn't a funny little torch.
At one point he turns back and he can see it on their faces. It's wearing off.
The Catacombs Act II
Now to hunt for stragglers, going into the distant tunnels. He's not too worried about getting lost. He's done enough relic searches that he knows how to navigate and remember routes. Finding one of the safe burial chambers he sits down to rest, right next to a skeleton. "I guess you don't got all that much to worry about no more, huh Mister?" he says to it. He sees the tube next to it, picks it up, and the cap comes off easy. He unrolls it.
"Ma'am. Woops."
But... this is some old farm woman's life. Kindness, from the time she was a child to her old days. Love from her children and family about what feels like the smallest damn things.
You may dress like us, but you'll never hear the horns of freedom when you die, Yondu. And the colors of Ogord will never flash over your grave.
He frowns down at the scroll, his heart literally hurting in his damn chest, then shifts his red gaze to the corpse next to him. He pulls out that train journal he's not used for shit, starting to write down an abbreviated version of what he's been reading. Just in case those visions turn out, it should be written down in a place that won't get wiped away.
no subject
He didn't get a good look at the outside, but he saw enough to know this don't match. Clue number two that everything is real wrong is how a bunch of people that look nothin' like him go walkin' by him like it's nothin'. How a vendor comes up to him and offers him something to eat that, when he holds it to his nose, doesn't smell great.
"Yeah, I think this is a li'l' out of my price range. Y'all notice somethin' a little off here?" A pause. "Nothin' at all?"
"Oh, there's a few problems out at the farms but since the demons left things have been great."
How the everlovin' hell is he going to have the patience to talk someone through this? He folds his hands in front of his nose, taking in a deep breath. "Fella, you notice anything off about me?"
The guy stares at him. Squints. Scrunches up his whole face. "...Is this a trick question? Are you famous?"
It's been less than five minutes and he's already rearing to get pissed off.
Oddly enough he's not used his arrow to kill or even threaten anyone in a solid three weeks. Literally the longest he's gone without havin' to. He doesn't know if it's relaxing or he's itching for a fight, but it's at least still useful. The fin on his head is lit up, strobing threads of light as he "looks" ahead.
The people behind him are starting to register that it's not normal that he's leaving red light on the dark walls. That what he's holding in his hand leaving a trail of brilliance behind it, illuminating the path, isn't a funny little torch.
At one point he turns back and he can see it on their faces. It's wearing off.
"Ma'am. Woops."
But... this is some old farm woman's life. Kindness, from the time she was a child to her old days. Love from her children and family about what feels like the smallest damn things.
You may dress like us, but you'll never hear the horns of freedom when you die, Yondu. And the colors of Ogord will never flash over your grave.
He frowns down at the scroll, his heart literally hurting in his damn chest, then shifts his red gaze to the corpse next to him. He pulls out that train journal he's not used for shit, starting to write down an abbreviated version of what he's been reading. Just in case those visions turn out, it should be written down in a place that won't get wiped away.