The younger mage's vocal distress, whining as it may be, serves as goad to an already-lacerated conscience. Myr peels himself off the bench, taking up the staff he'd left beneath it to feel his way--
No, on second thought, one of those spirits was after him and now it's moved on to tormenting someone weaker because he wouldn't look at it. Enough of that. He strips the blindfold off and shoves it in his pocket, grabs the wine bottle blindly from off the table (don't look at the thing spreading around it don't look don't) and marches over to Benedict.
"Here," and he offers the bottle once he's in reaching distance. "Look at me, take a drink of this, and tell me in detail how awful it is."
Torn between targets, the wraith-spirit hesitates only a moment before bringing her sword down on Myr. He flinches but keeps going: "And maybe the Lady De La Fontaine can tell us more about Messere De Vries and whatever mad spirit inspired him to draw those little rolly things with the beaks. You're all right over there, serah?" That last to Leander.
Having lost all its original audience to mere reproductions of its glory, the squirming obscenity on the table retreats coyly down some orthogonal dimension until it vanishes from sight. A scent of baking sand and putrefying corpse replaces it.
no subject
The younger mage's vocal distress, whining as it may be, serves as goad to an already-lacerated conscience. Myr peels himself off the bench, taking up the staff he'd left beneath it to feel his way--
No, on second thought, one of those spirits was after him and now it's moved on to tormenting someone weaker because he wouldn't look at it. Enough of that. He strips the blindfold off and shoves it in his pocket, grabs the wine bottle blindly from off the table (don't look at the thing spreading around it don't look don't) and marches over to Benedict.
"Here," and he offers the bottle once he's in reaching distance. "Look at me, take a drink of this, and tell me in detail how awful it is."
Torn between targets, the wraith-spirit hesitates only a moment before bringing her sword down on Myr. He flinches but keeps going: "And maybe the Lady De La Fontaine can tell us more about Messere De Vries and whatever mad spirit inspired him to draw those little rolly things with the beaks. You're all right over there, serah?" That last to Leander.
Having lost all its original audience to mere reproductions of its glory, the squirming obscenity on the table retreats coyly down some orthogonal dimension until it vanishes from sight. A scent of baking sand and putrefying corpse replaces it.