Immediately, the cold assaulted them. It burrowed into their skin and threatened to subsume their senses to its will. Yet they were hardy and advanced slowly, the flickering light of the small lantern dwarfed by the encroaching dark. The ground was treacherous and uneven. There was the subterranean drip of water, the sound cloying, a clammy thickness.
Rimbaud tugged his cloak around him, and moved forwards. There was only one way to travel, three sides of the trapdoor's entry being solid walls of rough stone. It slanted downhill. The cold was bitter. He nearly slipped a number of times on the slippery and uneven surface. He wondered at the wisdom of their decision. His hands felt for the walls either side of him from time to time.
"I trust this ground will even out for us," intoned Estelyn with mock-pomposity, and Rimbaud smiled in the flickering lamplight, turning to see her eyes, gleaming in the dark behind him. He caught the flash of her white teeth.
[ December 11, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]
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