"Ah, see! I know how you long for it, Michel. Your honor, so precious, so hard-won. So difficult to recover once tarnished. It's unfair, don't you think? That you should bear the burden for that knife-ear's scheming?" The demon has retreated to the center of the courtyard, hanging back just up the steps as he observes. And continues talking, naturally. "That she should get to be so bold and be rewarded with power and favor and escape unscathed? While you spend your whole life in quiet, loyal service, keeping your head down and trotting along dutifully at her heels and she kicks you aside like nothing. Like a little gutter-rat."
Imshael laughs, rich and unctuous. His attention remains focused primarily on the chevalier, perhaps because he senses some internal crack he can more easily wiggle his fingers in, or perhaps just because it's fun. Even as he does it, his mental tentacles creep into Dorian's mind and Sam's, seeking out ammunition to ready himself to turn on them next. "That must have struck close to home, eh? And for what? For doing what any honorable chevalier would have done! Surely this is an injustice that must be righted?"
The demon may be picking at the Orlesian at the moment but his minions have no such blinders on. Spiders lash out with quick, stabby legs, and explode when pierced or struck by lightening, bursting gooey ichor over their attackers or crumpling up with a noxious odor of burning putrefaction. One, swollen larger than the rest, releases a sudden, disturbing flood of smaller spiders that race toward Sam in a thick carpet across the flagstones, ready to rush right up his robes.
The red templars are slower than their unencumbered fellows but they are better armored: spells and blades seem at first to sheer right off the thick crusting of crystals, and they swing their blocky, jagged limbs like weapons. One emerges from the opposite direction of the current host, coming at Dorian from behind with no subtlety but surprising speed, its lyrium-shard weapon swung for his back.
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Imshael laughs, rich and unctuous. His attention remains focused primarily on the chevalier, perhaps because he senses some internal crack he can more easily wiggle his fingers in, or perhaps just because it's fun. Even as he does it, his mental tentacles creep into Dorian's mind and Sam's, seeking out ammunition to ready himself to turn on them next. "That must have struck close to home, eh? And for what? For doing what any honorable chevalier would have done! Surely this is an injustice that must be righted?"
The demon may be picking at the Orlesian at the moment but his minions have no such blinders on. Spiders lash out with quick, stabby legs, and explode when pierced or struck by lightening, bursting gooey ichor over their attackers or crumpling up with a noxious odor of burning putrefaction. One, swollen larger than the rest, releases a sudden, disturbing flood of smaller spiders that race toward Sam in a thick carpet across the flagstones, ready to rush right up his robes.
The red templars are slower than their unencumbered fellows but they are better armored: spells and blades seem at first to sheer right off the thick crusting of crystals, and they swing their blocky, jagged limbs like weapons. One emerges from the opposite direction of the current host, coming at Dorian from behind with no subtlety but surprising speed, its lyrium-shard weapon swung for his back.