Re: The Promenade
He had told her something about himself; something quite vital, in fact, about life itself. To a creature with moving skin, perhaps the idea that life and living was of more importance than anything else seemed obvious to the point of idiocy, but not to him. Being Tarzan had nothing to do with it. It was all about perspective. He did not trouble himself that she hadn't understood his little moment of sharing; Tarzan hid very little, and wore things on his (nonexistent, metaphorical) sleeve. "Tarzan not avoid jungle. Jungle avoid Tarzan. Tarzan king." This was said in a very pointed tone, a if she was being foolish on purpose.
Tarzan's large pointed nose lifted up toward the ceiling and he gave a mighty sniff, attempting to navigate toward the scent of sustenance. It was growing fainter and mustier, and his stomach was giving angry growling noises, not unlike a large tiger caught by the tail. "Good food taste better if runs slow," Tarzan said wisely, repeating a proverb he found in the memories leafed in dark jungles. "...And cooked good," he added, grudgingly, finding that particular proverb much closer to the surface.
The stairway grew dark, and he let go of her hand after his eyes adjusted (rapid). He caught hold of a pipe overhead and, intent on searching ahead for more food, started swinging away, unaware she might not have his night-sight. "Run slow, good food," he was muttering to himself as he swung away into the darkness, not aware she wasn't keeping up, and too far once he realized she was not behind him.