It’s not everyone who gets to wake up to their own personal earthquake. A big, hairy, smelly Outcast earthquake named “Alvin the Treacherous”. Unfortunately, since getting knocked unconscious can leave you prone to a lot of different things, I’m one of those people.
My aching head feels dense, like it’s overstuffed with wool. The fact that I seem to be hanging over a shoulder doesn’t make my night any better, to be honest. However, broken prosthetic aside, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to stand on my own anyway.
I would appreciate the lift, but the problem is, as I come to realize with every brain-rattling stomp the man takes, is that we’re going in the wrong direction. I can hear and feel him slashing through the undergrowth as he jogs, cursing and muttering about getting to his ship and having to wait for the members of his party that aren’t dead.
Hold it…his ship?
So that’s where we’re headed. Oh, perfect. A