She stares dumbly at Anders, tries to make out the words, and then he's turning, throwing himself at that thing looks like some kid's drawing of an ox. The Orlesian's gone and wripped his own hand clear up, about to wave hello to all life's horrifying mystery.
(Myr's fingers on her, too small and strong for another's, and she'd have to bowl him over to bolt now.)
Force shakes the edges of the anchor, a burning conduit, a gate to something else. Melys lifts her palm --
(Is this what power feels like? She never wanted that.)
The immediate sense that something's gone wrong, bizarre in its certainty. The pressure in the air before a storm, or the first time you crack a bone; she knows even without a frame for the shape: Something's wrong with this.
It holds her fixed, marveling even as she waits for it to hit, for the cavalcade of shit just about to spill.
Heard u liked rifts so we put a rift by ur rift
(Myr's fingers on her, too small and strong for another's, and she'd have to bowl him over to bolt now.)
Force shakes the edges of the anchor, a burning conduit, a gate to something else. Melys lifts her palm --
(Is this what power feels like? She never wanted that.)
The immediate sense that something's gone wrong, bizarre in its certainty. The pressure in the air before a storm, or the first time you crack a bone; she knows even without a frame for the shape: Something's wrong with this.
It holds her fixed, marveling even as she waits for it to hit, for the cavalcade of shit just about to spill.
Her hand shudders,
The rift shudders, splits.