buffleheaded: (Mass Suggestion)

From: [personal profile] buffleheaded

Re: text: @direcharm


Though he stops, Imoen almost marches right on ahead. It's his hand going up that gets her to draw up quick, considering him.

"That's the plan!" She taps a finger on her chin. "If it comes to it, that should at least ground them long enough to do what we need. Maybe end up hustling away with a couple lumps."
buffleheaded: (Freedom)

From: [personal profile] buffleheaded

Re: text: @direcharm


"Glad you're on board."

Imoen will go ahead and produce a jar, turning it in her hands before starting to stalk toward the hive. Sneaking probably didn't matter in the normal sense, but what else is a rogue to do? She approaches her likely-to-involve-stinging destiny, trusting him to be shortly behind.

Only one glance his way, to make sure she doesn't get too far ahead with these things, before she tries to cut into the hive. At least some of it will have to come out, for her goal.
buffleheaded: (Detecting Traps)

From: [personal profile] buffleheaded

Re: text: @direcharm


It's inevitably going to be a disaster. Always would be. Imoen is cutting, and soon enough she's drawing away a piece of the hive and its honeycomb. This is the easy part of their goals, it turns out.

In her head, the problem was going to be the bees waking and flying out of the hive. It takes longer to realize that the response would be little insects crawling up her arms as she works, and that it doesn't really matter that she wore heavy fabrics so much as that it doesn't stop the bugs from simply walking up and ducking under fabrics.

So it's fine, at first, and Imoen thinks things are going perfectly smoothly. Until she finally feels little points of heat on her forearms, a warning before she feels the sting start, and Imoen yelps, pulling away from the hive and raising her arms. It takes some will to keep from dropping her prize, but she needs that honey.
buffleheaded: (Concentration check)

From: [personal profile] buffleheaded

Re: text: @direcharm


She's had this moment coming. For a moment, Imoen is just locked in place, dripping and generally trying to incorporate everything her senses are telling her. Cold and wet, lingering stinging spots. But at least for a moment, she's not being burned or bitten.

Simon has a point, even if she has no idea about the possibility of pheromones. The voice of reason on hand. "Right," she finally says. Only a little bit of regret in her tone. "Let me just stow this."

Cram the prize in a jar, jam the top, and start scurrying away? It's definitely what she's about to do.
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