As if in reply to the slow beginning of that grin: the soft creak of a step nearby. Or maybe it's the gentle scrape of a latch being shifted. Or—
In rapid succession, the life sized portrait of a historic Caliara swings away from the wall to admit a tall, slim figure to the study. And then Fitcher throws her knife, still dripping with magebane. If there is a wet thwack as it pegs somewhere below the shadow's ribs, it's swallowed by the liquid flash of some half formed and entirely reflexive casting gone wild, a tongue of mage fire spilling ineffectually hot across the stone ceiling of the narrow hidden passage as the largely unseen mage stumbles back into the dark.
Fitcher snatches the still smoldering box off the rug and scrambles to join Silas in the window. Time to go.
no subject
In rapid succession, the life sized portrait of a historic Caliara swings away from the wall to admit a tall, slim figure to the study. And then Fitcher throws her knife, still dripping with magebane. If there is a wet thwack as it pegs somewhere below the shadow's ribs, it's swallowed by the liquid flash of some half formed and entirely reflexive casting gone wild, a tongue of mage fire spilling ineffectually hot across the stone ceiling of the narrow hidden passage as the largely unseen mage stumbles back into the dark.
Fitcher snatches the still smoldering box off the rug and scrambles to join Silas in the window. Time to go.