Control is fast slipping away from him. He is being taken apart by whelps, by children with not even a spark of magic between them, by people who bear a mark of the Fade that is undeserved, a corruption of something precious with their base, feral—
The line of thought, stumbling and shambolic as it is clatters as haphazardly as the rock that pulls his attention, his desperate attempt to grasp at his reflexes betraying him. Maris realises it a moment to late, the taste of blood hot and unpleasant, nose bleeding a little from Jamie's punch.
The Templar raises his hand, and Maris raises his own in turn. Perhaps a simple reflexive protest, perhaps a desperate chance to let lightning burn a path through the air and strike messy wounds into the skin of the Avvar and the Templar. His hand strains, a light shudder of muscle spasming, his magic smothered before it has a chance to unfurl past his skin.
He means to swing the staff about, catch the Avvar's ankles and strike them from under her, and break her neck with his foot. Simple, final. Instead of being able to surge forward with a push of energy, Sabine's arrow has left his leg weak and useless feeling. There is no speed and no power to push him into the dance, and he realises all too late the cost.
His right hand is cleaved from his wrist, not quite cleanly; it spins in a strange, slow rotation as his heart seems to thud slow and heavy in his ears, held on by a thread of skin and sinew as Maris doubles over with the pain. Truthfully, he does not know if he yells or screams or if his voice is so raw as to be rendered silent.
no subject
The line of thought, stumbling and shambolic as it is clatters as haphazardly as the rock that pulls his attention, his desperate attempt to grasp at his reflexes betraying him. Maris realises it a moment to late, the taste of blood hot and unpleasant, nose bleeding a little from Jamie's punch.
The Templar raises his hand, and Maris raises his own in turn. Perhaps a simple reflexive protest, perhaps a desperate chance to let lightning burn a path through the air and strike messy wounds into the skin of the Avvar and the Templar. His hand strains, a light shudder of muscle spasming, his magic smothered before it has a chance to unfurl past his skin.
He means to swing the staff about, catch the Avvar's ankles and strike them from under her, and break her neck with his foot. Simple, final. Instead of being able to surge forward with a push of energy, Sabine's arrow has left his leg weak and useless feeling. There is no speed and no power to push him into the dance, and he realises all too late the cost.
His right hand is cleaved from his wrist, not quite cleanly; it spins in a strange, slow rotation as his heart seems to thud slow and heavy in his ears, held on by a thread of skin and sinew as Maris doubles over with the pain. Truthfully, he does not know if he yells or screams or if his voice is so raw as to be rendered silent.