Lucas pouted, and huffed. Hands on his hips, he glared at the muddy sludge that was oozing around his now-spoiled boots. He sighed, exhasperated, and looked back up at the marsh. He held his map up to align with the horizon in front of his face; the river was in the same place as it was in the sketch of the temple, and even the treeline was the same, though thicker and larger in real life. All this meant that he was standing, supposably, right before the temple.
What even.
He crossed his arms before his chest, and looked around, stretching his neck until it popped; a habit he did when he was anxious, or overwhelmed. He looked to the right—crack—then to the left—pop!—then up, to the bright blue sky—snap—and then, twisting his torso, he turned to face behind him; "OOOoohh!"
He screamed out, losing balance and nearly falling into the mud. A man stood behind him, and Lucas cried out again, eyes wide and set on the man. His jaw could've touched the floor from the gaping, startled frown he made.
