At his slightest touch the coppery flakes drifted to the ground, swaying slightly back and forth in their decent. The grouping of the prints, spaced delicately and evenly, and their flat, seemingly intentional perfection struck the operative as rather curious. He would've missed the small hole without their guidance, and prints placed amidst a struggle would have been closer together, in a more similar direction and streaked from frantic movement. Taking a knee, Moro ventured a gander into the tiny space. Its edges were rounded, and it was deep enough for something to fit inside. There was no way in hell he was going to stick his finger in there to poke around, but he was curious to see how deep the hole went, possibly giving him a larger clue as to its purpose. He had to continue onward, and this hole was his only shot as far as he could tell.
Pulling his Santaru-Tagi combat dagger from its sheath at his right hip, he unceremoniously jammed it into the crevasse, working it back and forth loosely. Unsatisfied, he regained his full height, brushing the loose clumps of dirt from his knee; double-taking as he did so, a thick soupy mist had begun to pour out from beneath the dirt, and it was already making its way past his ankles. A sharp stench filled his nostrils, and it was then, eyes darting back to the wall, he noticed his previous scrabbling had uncovered the edge of a letter. Pawing away the rest of the prints covering the symbol, Moro cocked his head to the side, staring at the "S" dumbly. What the shit. Moro's chemical expertise went very little beyond the category starting with 'mixing baking soda and vinegar makes the volcano erupt' all the way up to creating ammonia nitrate remote explosives using fertilizer found in a farmer's barn. He had no clue what this "S" meant, but from experience he did know that the smell of rotting eggs meant boom.
Now hectically scanning the room to locate whatever needed to be shoved in this cleft, his gaze locked onto the tree in the room's center. Weirdly grasping, groping hands seeking escape just as he was now, when it clicked. The handprints were made with the tree's sap, and the rounded edges were made to accept a wooden finger. Dashing through the loam like a one thunderbird open sleigh, a few quick jumps from branch to branch brought him to his limb of choice near the tree's apex, his boots already sticky with crimson sap. His goal awaited him at the branch's distal side, it terminated in a wooden fist with its 'index finger' jutting out in an accusatory gesture, assigning blame to no one in particular.
There was zero chance of the branch supporting his weight out where he needed to sever the hand, and so begrudgingly he clung underneath it. Upside down, he eeked slowly along the branch, keeping as much of his weight near the tree's trunk as he could, gooey droplets pelting his upturned expression of concentration, and oozing slowly over the sides of his face like hemic tears. Wobbling precariously as he inched closer to his goal, he finally was able to stretch his right arm out as far as his body would allow, flicking open his sword and swiping the hand off in one fluid motion. He dropped with his sylvan prize, catching it in midair and rolling across the dirt as he sprinted back to the wall, shoving the lone finger into the aperture.
Pulling his Santaru-Tagi combat dagger from its sheath at his right hip, he unceremoniously jammed it into the crevasse, working it back and forth loosely. Unsatisfied, he regained his full height, brushing the loose clumps of dirt from his knee; double-taking as he did so, a thick soupy mist had begun to pour out from beneath the dirt, and it was already making its way past his ankles. A sharp stench filled his nostrils, and it was then, eyes darting back to the wall, he noticed his previous scrabbling had uncovered the edge of a letter. Pawing away the rest of the prints covering the symbol, Moro cocked his head to the side, staring at the "S" dumbly. What the shit. Moro's chemical expertise went very little beyond the category starting with 'mixing baking soda and vinegar makes the volcano erupt' all the way up to creating ammonia nitrate remote explosives using fertilizer found in a farmer's barn. He had no clue what this "S" meant, but from experience he did know that the smell of rotting eggs meant boom.
Now hectically scanning the room to locate whatever needed to be shoved in this cleft, his gaze locked onto the tree in the room's center. Weirdly grasping, groping hands seeking escape just as he was now, when it clicked. The handprints were made with the tree's sap, and the rounded edges were made to accept a wooden finger. Dashing through the loam like a one thunderbird open sleigh, a few quick jumps from branch to branch brought him to his limb of choice near the tree's apex, his boots already sticky with crimson sap. His goal awaited him at the branch's distal side, it terminated in a wooden fist with its 'index finger' jutting out in an accusatory gesture, assigning blame to no one in particular.
There was zero chance of the branch supporting his weight out where he needed to sever the hand, and so begrudgingly he clung underneath it. Upside down, he eeked slowly along the branch, keeping as much of his weight near the tree's trunk as he could, gooey droplets pelting his upturned expression of concentration, and oozing slowly over the sides of his face like hemic tears. Wobbling precariously as he inched closer to his goal, he finally was able to stretch his right arm out as far as his body would allow, flicking open his sword and swiping the hand off in one fluid motion. He dropped with his sylvan prize, catching it in midair and rolling across the dirt as he sprinted back to the wall, shoving the lone finger into the aperture.