Which is an understatement, yes, but not only are the spirits inhabiting this place going on the offensive, the entire structure has turned against them. This place that has served as home away from home for weeks. Mages have never been able to do that before.
What he needs is a weapon. He doesn't have any magic in return (not for occasional lack of trying, you know, just in case), which means he needs a weapon or a shield or literally anything in his shit hands to protect himself. He could...he could try to summon up the ability to cut off magic from this place. Already running some verses from Trials through his head, a perpetual prayer to set his nerves to steel, to try and gather the power of the Maker's will inside of him. But he has no idea if he can. Has no idea what might happen if he does.
They back in a haste into the hall and everything twists, and his feet can't keep hold of the floor anymore, because it isn't the floor anymore. His shoulder hits the wall at an odd angle, and he rolls and straightens until his feet are straddling the line between wall and floor, and then the hallway slides further until he's running along the wall itself. And none of the objects are moving; they stay put as though gravity has no say here.
It probably doesn't.
Well, if the building and its residents are against them, and this place is a construct of the mind and magic, then he has no reason to care about any priceless artifacts, now, does he? There's a vase that looks worth at least a thousand gold on a little table, and he hefts it up, chucks it. It shatters into a hundred pieces by the magical whip of the novice. "Yeah," he puffs, "okay, I'm gonna need something a little more weapon-y."
In the meantime, he hops over paintings, a mirror he rips from the floor-wall as a makeshift shield, and--
--a hand reaches out of a portrait to grab him by the ankle. The damn green-robed bushy-browed son of a bitch in all his oily texture. Mobius kicks, trying to shake himself free. "I really kind of hate your place, Strange!"
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Which is an understatement, yes, but not only are the spirits inhabiting this place going on the offensive, the entire structure has turned against them. This place that has served as home away from home for weeks. Mages have never been able to do that before.
What he needs is a weapon. He doesn't have any magic in return (not for occasional lack of trying, you know, just in case), which means he needs a weapon or a shield or literally anything in his shit hands to protect himself. He could...he could try to summon up the ability to cut off magic from this place. Already running some verses from Trials through his head, a perpetual prayer to set his nerves to steel, to try and gather the power of the Maker's will inside of him. But he has no idea if he can. Has no idea what might happen if he does.
They back in a haste into the hall and everything twists, and his feet can't keep hold of the floor anymore, because it isn't the floor anymore. His shoulder hits the wall at an odd angle, and he rolls and straightens until his feet are straddling the line between wall and floor, and then the hallway slides further until he's running along the wall itself. And none of the objects are moving; they stay put as though gravity has no say here.
It probably doesn't.
Well, if the building and its residents are against them, and this place is a construct of the mind and magic, then he has no reason to care about any priceless artifacts, now, does he? There's a vase that looks worth at least a thousand gold on a little table, and he hefts it up, chucks it. It shatters into a hundred pieces by the magical whip of the novice. "Yeah," he puffs, "okay, I'm gonna need something a little more weapon-y."
In the meantime, he hops over paintings, a mirror he rips from the floor-wall as a makeshift shield, and--
--a hand reaches out of a portrait to grab him by the ankle. The damn green-robed bushy-browed son of a bitch in all his oily texture. Mobius kicks, trying to shake himself free. "I really kind of hate your place, Strange!"