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He's noticed you. "Haw-haw-haw! Sharp eye! I like to pre-dose before I get on up there— makes the nasty stuff go down cleaner, since I've already got some in the system."
Oh, God. That explains the crazed laughter. "You're <span class="mu-i">drugged?</span>"
"That's the fucking biz, kid! Not by much, though. 10%'s just a buzz." He flashes his false teeth. "Ready when you are."
Your aunt must be waking up in cold sweats. At least Earl seems... docile? And nonreligious? That's important. If anything, he's really sticking it to the pagans; going and using their sacred magyck whatsit for crass commercialism. What would stupid Arledge have to say about this? Ha. All for a good cause, then.
Poor Earl has to stoop all the way through the tunnel outside, plus the web of tunnels that follow: tunnels with black rock, and red rock, and white; tunnels colonized by clams and limpets, or by fuzzy crabs; tunnels so choked with steam you're unable to enter. Earl, skin toughened(?), goes in a little ways then retreats for your sake: we'll go around, he says. Once he enters the steam and emerges coughing like a smoker: that one's poisonous, he says. We'll go around.
You're sure Richard could cook something up to let you tolerate the heat, and/or the poisonous gases, but you think he may be resting— since he might be ill, you don't want to bother him. Instead, Earl keeps reflexively offering you drugs. (He seems to think it's the polite thing to do.) "You really sure? At this concentration it's as safe as it gets!"
You reiterate that you're sure, and he lets it drop... this time. Things improve when you emerge into an area with higher ceilings, and Earl finally gets to crack his back. "Shit! That feels good. How are you doing? Getting tired? They don't make these things easy to get to, sorry to say..."
"Um, I'm okay." Between the lack of sky and your sudden awakening, it's hard to say how long you've been going for. "Maybe we should sit down for a minute? Just a minute, though, I'm not actually—"
Earl surveys the path before you: pockmarked with holes in the wall (eel dens?), it slopes steeply upward. "Hmm. Well, we could do that, for sure. But, kid, what if I just took a load off you?"
You don't have anything he can carry— The Sword is firmly off-limits, and not that heavy, anyhow. "Huh?"
"Do you want a ride?" He grins. "I can lift you no problem."
<span class="mu-i">Oh.</span> Uh... on his back, you presume? Is that untoward? He's out of eligibility for you, to be certain— was probably out of eligibility whenever he drowned, and now, what, could be your father's age? A 'confirmed bachelor,' your aunt would say. Non-threatening. Also, you wouldn't complain about not having to walk further. You nod gingerly.
"Hoo-kay! Step here, then." He cups his hands as a foothold, remaining placid as you step upon them and shimmy yourself into position. "Hey, that's right. Can't feel a thing. Comfortable?"
(3/5)
