"Don't fall in!" she cries as Peeta loses a shoe to the muck and she sinks a further few inches. It seems to not be as bad so long as she holds still, but she's still sinking. It's as if there's no bottom to this weird bog she's in.
By the time Peeta reaches for her, the mud has reached her hips. She stretches forward precariously, her fingertips just barely brushing his, and then gasps as even that little movement seems to increase the pull from below.
Wait. This is stupid. "Hang on," she says, "I can--I'll just take a shape." There might not be much her human body can do to get out of this, but she doesn't need to stick to just a human body. She forces herself to take a slow, deep breath, then thinks of crows. She'll fly herself out.
The choice backfires horribly. The swamp doesn't want to give her up even as she shrinks in on herself, and one downbeat of her wings gets them stuck in the mud, too. She lets out a harsh squawk, then twists and grows into sea lion shape, lithe and strong and so good at swimming. But this isn't water, either, and her flippers don't find the mud any easier to work with than her human limbs had done. It's not working -- nothing's working--
She takes human shape again, buried to her shoulders. It's a struggle just to free one arm, but she manages. Her bow, miraculously, hasn't yet been lost to the swamp, and she grabs it with a mud-slick hand and thrusts it toward Peeta. Goddess, she should have started with this idea. "Can you reach it?"
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By the time Peeta reaches for her, the mud has reached her hips. She stretches forward precariously, her fingertips just barely brushing his, and then gasps as even that little movement seems to increase the pull from below.
Wait. This is stupid. "Hang on," she says, "I can--I'll just take a shape." There might not be much her human body can do to get out of this, but she doesn't need to stick to just a human body. She forces herself to take a slow, deep breath, then thinks of crows. She'll fly herself out.
The choice backfires horribly. The swamp doesn't want to give her up even as she shrinks in on herself, and one downbeat of her wings gets them stuck in the mud, too. She lets out a harsh squawk, then twists and grows into sea lion shape, lithe and strong and so good at swimming. But this isn't water, either, and her flippers don't find the mud any easier to work with than her human limbs had done. It's not working -- nothing's working--
She takes human shape again, buried to her shoulders. It's a struggle just to free one arm, but she manages. Her bow, miraculously, hasn't yet been lost to the swamp, and she grabs it with a mud-slick hand and thrusts it toward Peeta. Goddess, she should have started with this idea. "Can you reach it?"