The more otherworldly the scene becomes, the more at home Stephen feels. Magic in bitter mundane Thedas has felt like trudging through molasses, trying to reach for senses gone dull and numb.
But in the dreaming, in the Fade itself? Ah, it’s so much easier: swimming through raw magic, the rules of reality more malleable and permeable than before. It takes sheer concentrated willpower to exert changes on their surroundings, but he has that in spades. He has juggled and reconstructed and moulded the mirror dimension at a whim. He has been here before. White-haired Vazeiros with his one scarred milky-white eye, grey-haired Kaecilius with his eyes burned out from dark magic, both making the hallway spin and spiral dizzingly around him.
A spirit-blade materialises in his hand, sword bright with ethereal fire. Battling a dream-beast is ever so much easier than the mortifying ordeal of being known.
“Alright, so the mask’s off,” Stephen says. “Good.”
The thing calling itself Vazeiros might not have anything else to say, but the Sorcerer Supreme came up through quips. The hallway grows longer, coils in on itself like an Escher landscape, and their swords rise to clash against each other, metal ringing on Fadestuff.
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The more otherworldly the scene becomes, the more at home Stephen feels. Magic in bitter mundane Thedas has felt like trudging through molasses, trying to reach for senses gone dull and numb.
But in the dreaming, in the Fade itself? Ah, it’s so much easier: swimming through raw magic, the rules of reality more malleable and permeable than before. It takes sheer concentrated willpower to exert changes on their surroundings, but he has that in spades. He has juggled and reconstructed and moulded the mirror dimension at a whim. He has been here before. White-haired Vazeiros with his one scarred milky-white eye, grey-haired Kaecilius with his eyes burned out from dark magic, both making the hallway spin and spiral dizzingly around him.
A spirit-blade materialises in his hand, sword bright with ethereal fire. Battling a dream-beast is ever so much easier than the mortifying ordeal of being known.
“Alright, so the mask’s off,” Stephen says. “Good.”
The thing calling itself Vazeiros might not have anything else to say, but the Sorcerer Supreme came up through quips. The hallway grows longer, coils in on itself like an Escher landscape, and their swords rise to clash against each other, metal ringing on Fadestuff.