Not that he can do anything if the shouting turns out to be a bad sign, but from the glimpse he catches of the guards, it doesn't seem like they've been put on alert.
Donnie only has a few seconds to get a good look at what's on the other side before he dropping down to skid down the ever-growing pile. He has to take care to avoid the larger, sharper chunks. It'd be pretty pointless to be compromised early on if he cut up his feet.
At the foot of the slope he crouches, waiting and listening, but from here he can't hear as well beyond the groaning machinery and the crumble of rocks that continue to be deposited. His eyes rake across the yard and along the sides. Down isn't particularly where Donnie wants to go, but he spies what he's looking for, nearly hidden by the carelessly spread rubble.
He slinks along the walls, ducking into the nearest shadow when he can't find a good chunk of debris to hide by, eventually picking his way to an old grating. The air that gusts out is warm and not unlike the feeling of the inside of someone's mouth, which does not make him any more inclined to go inside, but he tells himself it's only temporary. Getting the bolts loose isn't too difficult, the stonework around them cracked and the metal itself worn and rusted. Just a bit of jimmying with one of his tools and eventually he's carefully setting aside the latch that kept the thing locked in place.
The grate itself is a hefty thing and would have been easier if his big brother were there to lift it, but the turtlekin's no slouch either, managing to get it open wide enough to slip between, holding his breath as the old hinges protest, hoping it's written off as just the other machinery making noise. And then he eases it down behind him, shaking out his arms before he turns to make his way down the awful tunnel.
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Donnie only has a few seconds to get a good look at what's on the other side before he dropping down to skid down the ever-growing pile. He has to take care to avoid the larger, sharper chunks. It'd be pretty pointless to be compromised early on if he cut up his feet.
At the foot of the slope he crouches, waiting and listening, but from here he can't hear as well beyond the groaning machinery and the crumble of rocks that continue to be deposited. His eyes rake across the yard and along the sides. Down isn't particularly where Donnie wants to go, but he spies what he's looking for, nearly hidden by the carelessly spread rubble.
He slinks along the walls, ducking into the nearest shadow when he can't find a good chunk of debris to hide by, eventually picking his way to an old grating. The air that gusts out is warm and not unlike the feeling of the inside of someone's mouth, which does not make him any more inclined to go inside, but he tells himself it's only temporary. Getting the bolts loose isn't too difficult, the stonework around them cracked and the metal itself worn and rusted. Just a bit of jimmying with one of his tools and eventually he's carefully setting aside the latch that kept the thing locked in place.
The grate itself is a hefty thing and would have been easier if his big brother were there to lift it, but the turtlekin's no slouch either, managing to get it open wide enough to slip between, holding his breath as the old hinges protest, hoping it's written off as just the other machinery making noise. And then he eases it down behind him, shaking out his arms before he turns to make his way down the awful tunnel.