Flushed by the appearance of a larger predator, the demon explodes into the air; the dovelike wittering of its wings alerts Myr to his sudden danger as color and coherence bleed out of the world. In one fluid motion he draws his spirit blade and rounds on Atticus, actinic blue light illuminating the columns of water that rush up around them.
That he has no idea what to make of his visitor is written clear in the widening of his eyes, the sharp way he draws breath. Demon or spirit or something else he can't know, only that it has unprecedented power to warp the Fade around it--and he does not.
"Sometimes, I believe you Southern mages got what you deserved."
No time to understand what that might mean beyond a veiled provocation, no time to interpret this nightmarish vision, the walls are coming down and he can't swim-- He charges Atticus without thinking, knowing he's outmatched, knowing he's as good as dead but he won't go down without a fight, not this time and never again. He gets three steps before the sea pours in between them in a black liquid rush, shattering his glyph and smashing him against the platform with stunning force. Gone are his spirit blade and staff, ripped from his fingers as the eager currents drag him under.
He has drowned in his dreams often enough to know what happens now and how little there is he can do about it. Give up breathe in let it go let it end, better one quick inhalation and it's over than being torn apart by the malevolent shadows circling closer and closer through the crushing darkness. And yet he still fights, disoriented and holding his breath, struggling and clawing the wrong way through the water--blind to the silvery bubbles that spill upward from his lips as the painful band of panic and hypoxia tightens around his chest.
no subject
That he has no idea what to make of his visitor is written clear in the widening of his eyes, the sharp way he draws breath. Demon or spirit or something else he can't know, only that it has unprecedented power to warp the Fade around it--and he does not.
"Sometimes, I believe you Southern mages got what you deserved."
No time to understand what that might mean beyond a veiled provocation, no time to interpret this nightmarish vision, the walls are coming down and he can't swim-- He charges Atticus without thinking, knowing he's outmatched, knowing he's as good as dead but he won't go down without a fight, not this time and never again. He gets three steps before the sea pours in between them in a black liquid rush, shattering his glyph and smashing him against the platform with stunning force. Gone are his spirit blade and staff, ripped from his fingers as the eager currents drag him under.
He has drowned in his dreams often enough to know what happens now and how little there is he can do about it. Give up breathe in let it go let it end, better one quick inhalation and it's over than being torn apart by the malevolent shadows circling closer and closer through the crushing darkness. And yet he still fights, disoriented and holding his breath, struggling and clawing the wrong way through the water--blind to the silvery bubbles that spill upward from his lips as the painful band of panic and hypoxia tightens around his chest.
Maker, save me--!