All right. This is not the moment for a brave last stand, unless he happens to be crushed by a falling chunk of mortar. But that would be such an ignominious way to go out, even in a dream. Vandelin can muster up a better death than that, if it's inevitable.
But it's not, yet. He can make it down the stairs if he bolts, and if the tower is laid out like he remembers, the courtyard won't be far, and maybe a barrier will be enough to shield him from falling rock if he runs fast enough as he maintains it--
The heavy tread behind him catches his ear from just far enough off that he isn't blindsided. He doesn't have even time to process the nauseating state of the thing's body--it's not a templar, surely it's not a templar; he can't imagine that it ever was--before it advances on him faster than anything so deformed and weighted-down should ever be able to run.
The remnants of that aborted death-hex still linger, half-thought, still present in the raw Fade the way sugar sits longer in cold water before dissolving. He grabs for every pluripotent thread he can, changes the intent behind them, and twists them around to wrench the templar's sightline sideways at as sharp an angle as he can. Intangible tendrils of leeching fatigue wind around its legs for good measure, but Vandelin's last thought, a nauseating misgiving, is how can a hex blind a thing without eyes?
no subject
But it's not, yet. He can make it down the stairs if he bolts, and if the tower is laid out like he remembers, the courtyard won't be far, and maybe a barrier will be enough to shield him from falling rock if he runs fast enough as he maintains it--
The heavy tread behind him catches his ear from just far enough off that he isn't blindsided. He doesn't have even time to process the nauseating state of the thing's body--it's not a templar, surely it's not a templar; he can't imagine that it ever was--before it advances on him faster than anything so deformed and weighted-down should ever be able to run.
The remnants of that aborted death-hex still linger, half-thought, still present in the raw Fade the way sugar sits longer in cold water before dissolving. He grabs for every pluripotent thread he can, changes the intent behind them, and twists them around to wrench the templar's sightline sideways at as sharp an angle as he can. Intangible tendrils of leeching fatigue wind around its legs for good measure, but Vandelin's last thought, a nauseating misgiving, is how can a hex blind a thing without eyes?