closed | it's now or nevarra

[wythersake]

WHO: Flint, Ilias, Leander, Silver, Isaac
WHAT: Meddling
WHEN: Vaguely future-dated
WHERE: Nevarra
NOTES: body horror, bad things happening to horses

threadjack away or make your own TLs i'm not your boss

Comments

[hornswoggle]

There is no way to brace against this pain. All he has is the impression of Leander drawing at the Veil, and the sense of his magic digging in to John's body. (It drags up a specific memory: arms like iron across his chest, Howell bearing down on his leg, splitting flesh and cracking bone, and pain that wiped away everything in its wake.) Leander's magic burrows beneath the skin. John knows instinctively that he is not practiced the way Isaac is, and that there is something about the technique that isn't quite—

It isn't graceful as Isaac's work had been, nor is it Howell's blunted, precise approach. John has the sense of being shaped, as if Leander is drawing the flesh of his back languidly away from the shaft of the arrow. The momentary sense of something amiss unsettles him, but John hasn't screamed yet, and he doesn't scream now. This is pain he can grit his teeth against and groan through.

And reacting to Leander's ministrations deflects, for the moment, Flint's scrutiny. His hand balls in the dirt beside him as Flint speaks. Leander's timing is almost perfect, with his palms lifting from John's back just as Flint finishes discussing what's to be done with the corpses.

"It would be better to burn them," John says, and he thinks his reasoning is fairly clear. There's evidence here. Too many of these corpses were very clearly created by magical means. That's harder to hide than their earlier staging of the coach.

And then, turning enough to see Leander: "Thank you."

Whatever strangeness he had noticed about Leander's technique, the reaction afterwards, he keeps to himself. Mutual silence is going to have to do for the rest of this trip.

[wythersake]

When he blinks, the picture moves. Overlaps.

A man in black, a pale horse — the sort of thing that used to frighten him in stories, the curling lines of ink and superstition to occasionally adorn even Chantry tomes. The mouth would dry, if it weren’t full of ichor.

Separates: Leander’s speaking; Flint is. His drifting chin snaps up.

Leander's working.

The night stinks of blood and torn bowels, impossible to pick the particular drops. He doesn’t need to, imagination already cradling the means to this end. A warped door, a patient eye. Could you? Et voila,

The sort of thing to frighten him.

Flint’s still speaking. John hasn't screamed. Isaac finds his way up, palms the stone; carries an order. If he mislikes leaving Commander and Conspirator together, it's unavoidable. He’s walking better now, pushes past the pause in his step to lay a hand upon Ilias’. Fingers tangle in cold, damp fur, and his skin crawls. He tightens his grip, past the urge to recoil.

"I’m sorry," Spoken to dead ears, warm flesh. The moment hangs; two of them are breathing. "We need to move the bodies."

The rock and its lonely letter. Ilias’ pocket. His hand moves; they overlap.