Fuck it's cold. Lucy's shivers betray her composure, suddenly sensitive to the shock of the water. This bothers her more than the searchlights, more than Mr. Spaghetti, more than the absurdities. It's full feeling, down to her bones, and it smells. Fortunately she can stomach smells. The cold is too much. Her teeth chatter as she trudges on, following the group to shallower waters. Tomorrow feels far away. It didn't feel so far from within The Cove. The present becomes all consuming as a completely different Driftmoore unfolds.
Page seems to lose the strength on her right side more and more in correlation with the decrease in depth. Lucy assists Matthew and secures the shoulder on her weak side before stepping up to the cliff. Ooof. Her foot wobbles but keeps traction. She can barely manage it but she's not about to be useless. She's not about to be PC and ask if assistance is even needed, either - but she wagers she'll have to be nicer about it in the waking world. The moment they're out of the water she leaves Page to Matthew's arms, not nearly as skinny as hers. She looks back to the water, watching for more ominous splashing. Then she decides that whatever it is may chase them out of the water. She squats over the edge of the water and raises the frying pan above her head, watching intently. She has no intention of disabling it completely, but it might give them a boost in the race, if nothing else.
"Don't worry, I speak whale," Lucy says, tone flat and uncharacteristic of the character she's quoting.
Page seems to lose the strength on her right side more and more in correlation with the decrease in depth. Lucy assists Matthew and secures the shoulder on her weak side before stepping up to the cliff. Ooof. Her foot wobbles but keeps traction. She can barely manage it but she's not about to be useless. She's not about to be PC and ask if assistance is even needed, either - but she wagers she'll have to be nicer about it in the waking world. The moment they're out of the water she leaves Page to Matthew's arms, not nearly as skinny as hers. She looks back to the water, watching for more ominous splashing. Then she decides that whatever it is may chase them out of the water. She squats over the edge of the water and raises the frying pan above her head, watching intently. She has no intention of disabling it completely, but it might give them a boost in the race, if nothing else.
"Don't worry, I speak whale," Lucy says, tone flat and uncharacteristic of the character she's quoting.