Porter sought to inform Battlemage Rhozas of exactly what sort of threat he faced off against. As the senior mage and his two apprentices stood at the edge of the alter room, facing down the criminals at the other end, Porter chose to speak the man. "Five made it into the building. The woman has proven herself to be the leader and the greatest risk, she will need to be kept alive if at all possible. HE would have it no other way. The one in the black and purple cloak has shown no magical capabilities, his life as well as that of the one dressed in filthily linen are dispensable. There is one magic users tapping into my power and hiding against the back wall. Finally, the one in the black cloak can be of use to you. He will not willingly be of use to you, but given the proper nudging he is yours."
Speaking directly to Battlemage Rhozas like he had, Porter had momentarily distracted him at the moment that the woman had chosen to attack. That was unacceptable. The criminals were not to attack those that enforced the law, Porter could not allow that. HE would not allow that either. So Porter decided to offer the group yet one more chance to turn themselves in and to accept their punishment. This he did by dropping a piece of ceiling tile, nearly the size and weight of the alter that sat in the middle of the room, to the floor just barely out of arm's reach from the Battlemages and the woman.
The heavy stone creaked the floor beneath it, shook the room from the impact and the noise alone vibrated off the walls for several moments.
Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
You corporeal beings are so touchy.
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Gachety's Boys
- Outsider
- Posts: 12
- Joined: Wed Mar 31, 2010 1:11 pm
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Porter had a way of distracting Chet. The senior mage was trained to maintain focus, but sometimes parsing the instructions of his commander was enough to pull him away for a moment. His gaze flickered around the room to see that these threats Porter spoke of were not sneaking up unbeknownst, and while he was reasonably sure Porter was speaking into his mind only, he also had to check for the others' reactions. It was all somewhat disorienting.
Chet's expression of concern deepened for a moment as he glanced at the one Porter said would be of use. In the second he took to ponder the meaning of that, he found the female had closed the distance between them.
Tatha, standing just beside Chet, sucked his lower lip into his mouth and wet the tip of his left index finger. The index finger tips of his standard issue gloves had been snipped off and hemmed neatly. His long nails were filed into sharp "V"s. He was almost as reasonably calm as Chet.
Chet gave a brief grunt as Tsaikatlaua dug her talons into his shoulders. Battlemages were taught, over many years, to withstand a great deal of pain, pain much more horrendous than flesh wounds to the shoulders. Furthermore, the guarantee of the finest healing assistance available was enough to snuff the amplifying effect emotions had on pain. He was putting forth an example to the boys.
Tatha glanced wide-eyed at Chet, with the miscreant stuck to him like that, and hesitated no longer. He lifted his left hand so it was just next to his face and aimed the tip of his finger at Tsaikatlaua's face. His skin suddenly stretched gaunt against his features as if there were a powerful vacuum within his very skull. The nitrogen gas molecules adjacent to the moisture on his fingertip obeyed and changed into their liquid state. They surrendered much of their kinetic energy to the astral plane so as to stay cold enough to maintain their state. More nitrogen molecules around these took the nudge and changed as well.
Chet said nothing, but threw a hard glance at Tatha and clenched his fist in a silent gesture that said 'Take hold,' or 'Control it.'
That part was harder. Tatha's cheeks puffed slightly as he governed the distribution of liquid and gaseous nitrogen. The misty cloud, a colloid of nitrogen droplets suspended in the surrounding air, curled out towards Tsaikatlaua's face, following the aim of Tatha's finger. Unlike water vapor, it was frigid, cold enough to burn skin. The inside of the altar room, as to Porter's fastidious standards, was kept very dry lest rot sink in.
She shouted a command, that woman, and behind Chet and Tatha, Lemboysas rasped like a hyena. He continued to snap his belt of leather; the steel plates along its length continued to produce a rhythmic, echoing sound like a rusty ratchet being turned, over and over. Tsaikatlaua and Sagath, however, would start to experience it differently.
Tsiakatlaua and Sagath had both triggered the effect of Lemboysas's dementia magic. A persistent and overwhelming image would take up residence in both their minds, interrupting the continuity of conscious thought in any but the sagest of meditative minds. This image would vary very little between subjects, and was usually manifested as the shoulders and head of a skeleton, with peach pits and scraps of yellow cloth stuffed into its eye sockets. The apparition would wag its head rapidly and unceasingly; its jaws and teeth would rattle and echo the sound of Lemboysas's ratcheting.
The subject would also be blessed with the pressing awareness of how to stifle the apparition and resume serial thought, and that would be to speak aloud, continuously, whilst affording no conscious thought to his or her own speech. If the subject ceased, or failed to start, babbling nonsensical strings of words, the apparition would maintain its presence and effects. If the apparition was not stifled, the subject would be extremely limited in his or her ability to form a cohesive thought, and in many cases, depending on the subject's personality, would also be rendered distraught at the ghastliness of the phantasm.
Chet, for his own, had his possibilities less open than before. The woman who had so boldly put herself well within his range of attack was supposed to be kept alive. He would have to rely on the snaking cloud of freezing nitrogen aimed at her face and its exposed skin, and probably Lemboysas's pervasive dementia magic, to put her off. He shouldn't chop her in half, so hopefully any nicks or loss of limbs she suffered would be considered incidental and unavoidable, given her difficult positioning. He was expected to have excellent aim, but there was a certain compromise, and he hoped an understanding on the part of his superiors, between might and accuracy.
He snapped his fists open into rigid planes. The palms of his gloves, and all along the length of his fingers, seemed to blur as if behind a thick haze. He kept his left arm low, his elbow crooked to hold his hand with its palm just facing the lower edge of his ribs. His right, he swung out, palm facing himself, in a downward arc from his left hip and towards the rightward side of the circular room--his rightward, but the left to those entering from the opposite side. The path of the invisible blade projected from the end of Chet's hand could be seen as a disturbance in the dust from the fallen ceiling tile. Once its trajectory cleared the obstacle of Tsaikatlaua--and possibly sliced off the front of her left foot, or a few toes if she didn't move out of the way quickly enough--he swiveled his wrist so that his blade turned parallel to the floor, and continued his motion towards the wall.
His invisible blade was eleven feet long and he wielded it, at this moment, at the level of the middle of his torso. It tore through the air from where he first lifted it--to the side of Tsaikatlaua's figure--until it slammed into the wall and hacked a divet into the stone. The entire arc was about 45 degrees, and any figure standing anywhere within that eleven foot radius would be vulnerable to the blade that cut like steel. He felt he had estimated correctly, that the special one Porter spoke of was outside the radius . . . but the round room did have a way of distorting his depth perception just a bit.
His left hand, meanwhile, stayed at the ready for self-defense, in case that woman wouldn't give in to his boys' prodding. The potential of that astral blade vibrated against his palm, as eager as an unstable reaction.
Chet's expression of concern deepened for a moment as he glanced at the one Porter said would be of use. In the second he took to ponder the meaning of that, he found the female had closed the distance between them.
Tatha, standing just beside Chet, sucked his lower lip into his mouth and wet the tip of his left index finger. The index finger tips of his standard issue gloves had been snipped off and hemmed neatly. His long nails were filed into sharp "V"s. He was almost as reasonably calm as Chet.
Chet gave a brief grunt as Tsaikatlaua dug her talons into his shoulders. Battlemages were taught, over many years, to withstand a great deal of pain, pain much more horrendous than flesh wounds to the shoulders. Furthermore, the guarantee of the finest healing assistance available was enough to snuff the amplifying effect emotions had on pain. He was putting forth an example to the boys.
Tatha glanced wide-eyed at Chet, with the miscreant stuck to him like that, and hesitated no longer. He lifted his left hand so it was just next to his face and aimed the tip of his finger at Tsaikatlaua's face. His skin suddenly stretched gaunt against his features as if there were a powerful vacuum within his very skull. The nitrogen gas molecules adjacent to the moisture on his fingertip obeyed and changed into their liquid state. They surrendered much of their kinetic energy to the astral plane so as to stay cold enough to maintain their state. More nitrogen molecules around these took the nudge and changed as well.
Chet said nothing, but threw a hard glance at Tatha and clenched his fist in a silent gesture that said 'Take hold,' or 'Control it.'
That part was harder. Tatha's cheeks puffed slightly as he governed the distribution of liquid and gaseous nitrogen. The misty cloud, a colloid of nitrogen droplets suspended in the surrounding air, curled out towards Tsaikatlaua's face, following the aim of Tatha's finger. Unlike water vapor, it was frigid, cold enough to burn skin. The inside of the altar room, as to Porter's fastidious standards, was kept very dry lest rot sink in.
She shouted a command, that woman, and behind Chet and Tatha, Lemboysas rasped like a hyena. He continued to snap his belt of leather; the steel plates along its length continued to produce a rhythmic, echoing sound like a rusty ratchet being turned, over and over. Tsaikatlaua and Sagath, however, would start to experience it differently.
Tsiakatlaua and Sagath had both triggered the effect of Lemboysas's dementia magic. A persistent and overwhelming image would take up residence in both their minds, interrupting the continuity of conscious thought in any but the sagest of meditative minds. This image would vary very little between subjects, and was usually manifested as the shoulders and head of a skeleton, with peach pits and scraps of yellow cloth stuffed into its eye sockets. The apparition would wag its head rapidly and unceasingly; its jaws and teeth would rattle and echo the sound of Lemboysas's ratcheting.
The subject would also be blessed with the pressing awareness of how to stifle the apparition and resume serial thought, and that would be to speak aloud, continuously, whilst affording no conscious thought to his or her own speech. If the subject ceased, or failed to start, babbling nonsensical strings of words, the apparition would maintain its presence and effects. If the apparition was not stifled, the subject would be extremely limited in his or her ability to form a cohesive thought, and in many cases, depending on the subject's personality, would also be rendered distraught at the ghastliness of the phantasm.
Chet, for his own, had his possibilities less open than before. The woman who had so boldly put herself well within his range of attack was supposed to be kept alive. He would have to rely on the snaking cloud of freezing nitrogen aimed at her face and its exposed skin, and probably Lemboysas's pervasive dementia magic, to put her off. He shouldn't chop her in half, so hopefully any nicks or loss of limbs she suffered would be considered incidental and unavoidable, given her difficult positioning. He was expected to have excellent aim, but there was a certain compromise, and he hoped an understanding on the part of his superiors, between might and accuracy.
He snapped his fists open into rigid planes. The palms of his gloves, and all along the length of his fingers, seemed to blur as if behind a thick haze. He kept his left arm low, his elbow crooked to hold his hand with its palm just facing the lower edge of his ribs. His right, he swung out, palm facing himself, in a downward arc from his left hip and towards the rightward side of the circular room--his rightward, but the left to those entering from the opposite side. The path of the invisible blade projected from the end of Chet's hand could be seen as a disturbance in the dust from the fallen ceiling tile. Once its trajectory cleared the obstacle of Tsaikatlaua--and possibly sliced off the front of her left foot, or a few toes if she didn't move out of the way quickly enough--he swiveled his wrist so that his blade turned parallel to the floor, and continued his motion towards the wall.
His invisible blade was eleven feet long and he wielded it, at this moment, at the level of the middle of his torso. It tore through the air from where he first lifted it--to the side of Tsaikatlaua's figure--until it slammed into the wall and hacked a divet into the stone. The entire arc was about 45 degrees, and any figure standing anywhere within that eleven foot radius would be vulnerable to the blade that cut like steel. He felt he had estimated correctly, that the special one Porter spoke of was outside the radius . . . but the round room did have a way of distorting his depth perception just a bit.
His left hand, meanwhile, stayed at the ready for self-defense, in case that woman wouldn't give in to his boys' prodding. The potential of that astral blade vibrated against his palm, as eager as an unstable reaction.
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Talion remained plastered against the back wall. The hallway that led from the top of the stairs into the circular room before him was short enough that he could see some of what transpired on the other side of it. He saw the woman that had led him and the others into this building approach a group of men in armor and they seemed to be struggling and/or fighting with each other. He sensed magic being used and coming from their direction, but then again he sensed magic all around him in this strange building. The vary magic that he had had to draw on to conceal himself from sight wasn't even the normal, natural magic that he sensed on a day-to-day basis. There was something strange about this place.
Well besides the obvious frightening strangeness of the yet-unseen being that had spoken within their heads and changed the internal layout of the building at a moments notice. That was just the beginning of it.
The piece of ceiling that suddenly dislodged itself and fell to the floor startled Talion out of his silent pondering of what exactly it was that made this place so unique. First of all, other than the booming sound of stone hitting stone, the place had been eerily quiet since the death of the child downstairs. Never was Talion granted such silence. Day in and day out, he had to face the continuous rant of demons mocking his very existence but for some reason they left alone in here. Not only had they stopped their endless babble, but they were nowhere to be seen. For once he was not tripping over the tail of the muti-colored iguana that insisted on walking under his feet, for once he was following the cloaked figure that came and went as he pleased and never so much as even showed Talion his face, the birds were gone too. If nothing else, he was glad to be away from those deadly birds and their murderous intentions.
When the ringing in his ears finally ceased, Talion tried to re-evaluate the situation to determine his next course of action. From what he saw, his chances of making it out of the building without being detected and in one piece looked to be very slim.
Well besides the obvious frightening strangeness of the yet-unseen being that had spoken within their heads and changed the internal layout of the building at a moments notice. That was just the beginning of it.
The piece of ceiling that suddenly dislodged itself and fell to the floor startled Talion out of his silent pondering of what exactly it was that made this place so unique. First of all, other than the booming sound of stone hitting stone, the place had been eerily quiet since the death of the child downstairs. Never was Talion granted such silence. Day in and day out, he had to face the continuous rant of demons mocking his very existence but for some reason they left alone in here. Not only had they stopped their endless babble, but they were nowhere to be seen. For once he was not tripping over the tail of the muti-colored iguana that insisted on walking under his feet, for once he was following the cloaked figure that came and went as he pleased and never so much as even showed Talion his face, the birds were gone too. If nothing else, he was glad to be away from those deadly birds and their murderous intentions.
When the ringing in his ears finally ceased, Talion tried to re-evaluate the situation to determine his next course of action. From what he saw, his chances of making it out of the building without being detected and in one piece looked to be very slim.
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
The air practically screamed as the magically-conjured force sliced through the empty space. Yyan threw himself back around the corner, tripping on a step in his haste and ending up on his hands and knees. The invisible blade smashed into the curved wall behind him with a sound of tearing stone.
Talion’s barely-there figure at the bottom of the staircase faced him; everyone else was gone, left behind or already in the alter room with their assailants. Swallowing back his frantic pulse, Yyan turned and spotted a triangular piece of old black cloth lying on the stairs. The magic blade had sliced through the corner of his cloak when it passed.
Something in his mind broke open. The carefully constructed wall that housed his abilities fractured, and a tendril of… something wriggled free, wafting at the edges of his consciousness like the legs of a barnacle, reaching out, waving, signaling…
Yyan gave an incoherent shout of anger. Something had found a way inside him, was trying to wrest command away and turn it outward. He reached out to grab at that awareness and pull it back, but his fingers closed on nothing. This time a scream of rage tore around the edges of his ragged tongue, and the next thing he knew the air had gone still. His mind lapsed into quick-time. He threw himself back up the stairs and into the room, slithering along the far wall as he searched out a target.
There was Tsaikatlaua, clawed fingers buried in a man’s shoulders. Sagath stood a pace or two behind her. Step by agonizing step Yyan moved farther in. Two other figures stood behind the unknown man, half-buried in shadows with their features distorted. He felt the other awareness stretch farther toward them.
Without thinking Yyan targeted the three and unleashed a scream aimed into their minds. He realized his error an instant after—he and that other awareness were connected now, and he had given them access to him, even as the thought-rending noise issued forth. He poured every ounce of energy and focus he had, struggling to bury them before they could touch that awareness that even now stretched itself farther…
Talion’s barely-there figure at the bottom of the staircase faced him; everyone else was gone, left behind or already in the alter room with their assailants. Swallowing back his frantic pulse, Yyan turned and spotted a triangular piece of old black cloth lying on the stairs. The magic blade had sliced through the corner of his cloak when it passed.
Something in his mind broke open. The carefully constructed wall that housed his abilities fractured, and a tendril of… something wriggled free, wafting at the edges of his consciousness like the legs of a barnacle, reaching out, waving, signaling…
Yyan gave an incoherent shout of anger. Something had found a way inside him, was trying to wrest command away and turn it outward. He reached out to grab at that awareness and pull it back, but his fingers closed on nothing. This time a scream of rage tore around the edges of his ragged tongue, and the next thing he knew the air had gone still. His mind lapsed into quick-time. He threw himself back up the stairs and into the room, slithering along the far wall as he searched out a target.
There was Tsaikatlaua, clawed fingers buried in a man’s shoulders. Sagath stood a pace or two behind her. Step by agonizing step Yyan moved farther in. Two other figures stood behind the unknown man, half-buried in shadows with their features distorted. He felt the other awareness stretch farther toward them.
Without thinking Yyan targeted the three and unleashed a scream aimed into their minds. He realized his error an instant after—he and that other awareness were connected now, and he had given them access to him, even as the thought-rending noise issued forth. He poured every ounce of energy and focus he had, struggling to bury them before they could touch that awareness that even now stretched itself farther…
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Lemboysa had, through his own attack, saved Sagath a messy fate from Chet's blade. The illusion that clung and bit at the man-child's mind had caused him to turn and cower before Chet's attack whipped past. Sagath was not long down though, as a quiet string of nonsense left his mouth and he turned to face the threats at hand. One more thing to unbalance him, as he drew a badly honed knife and turned to look, to see.
He took too many steps back from Tsai and the craziness there, and as he did so Yyan moved past. The temptation was too much. The pressure in his skull was too much. The volume of his babble increased as he made his move to eradicate those who had trespassed into the realm of the Voice, who dared cross the God who ruled there.
See? See? I am worth something. I am useful. I am greater than these.
Like a rabid animal he thrust forward with his crude knife, intending to see it stick into Yyan's back, to tear and rend and destroy, taking advantage of the other's distraction and the blooming chaos to mask his moves, his intentions. He howled like a madman.
Anther heard that howl, just as he heard the clatter of commotion, the clash of opposing sides that he insisted to himself had nothing to do with him. Back again, away from the stairs, to the company of the dead body and its spreading blood. He had never imagined events such as those. Things like this simply didn't happen to street rats like him. He was no power, had none and had only ever looked forward to a ruthlessly hoarded pittance of money and early death by disease, likely sexual in nature.
He wanted out.
"Let me go, please, please. Didn't mean no harm 'n I cin show ya that crazy lady's hideout, swear I cin help jes don' t kill me like this, she made me, she made me, 'n I tried t'run I swear't!" He huddled by one of the barred cages, knees up to his chest, face pressed to his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. He rocked forward, and back, and forward again, hoping and dreading that voice would hear and take mercy.
He took too many steps back from Tsai and the craziness there, and as he did so Yyan moved past. The temptation was too much. The pressure in his skull was too much. The volume of his babble increased as he made his move to eradicate those who had trespassed into the realm of the Voice, who dared cross the God who ruled there.
See? See? I am worth something. I am useful. I am greater than these.
Like a rabid animal he thrust forward with his crude knife, intending to see it stick into Yyan's back, to tear and rend and destroy, taking advantage of the other's distraction and the blooming chaos to mask his moves, his intentions. He howled like a madman.
Anther heard that howl, just as he heard the clatter of commotion, the clash of opposing sides that he insisted to himself had nothing to do with him. Back again, away from the stairs, to the company of the dead body and its spreading blood. He had never imagined events such as those. Things like this simply didn't happen to street rats like him. He was no power, had none and had only ever looked forward to a ruthlessly hoarded pittance of money and early death by disease, likely sexual in nature.
He wanted out.
"Let me go, please, please. Didn't mean no harm 'n I cin show ya that crazy lady's hideout, swear I cin help jes don' t kill me like this, she made me, she made me, 'n I tried t'run I swear't!" He huddled by one of the barred cages, knees up to his chest, face pressed to his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. He rocked forward, and back, and forward again, hoping and dreading that voice would hear and take mercy.
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Pity might have been too strong of an emotion for Porter to handle. He may not have felt sorry for the young man in the prison and he may not have been trying to help him, but he knew that keeping a person alive long enough that they could be questioned and interrogated, they were more helpful than when they were simply squished beneath a piece of stone. It also made less of an overall mess for him to clean up.
Porter decided on trying to appeal to the thief in way that wouldn't send him into a state of panic. It was dangerous considering what had happened to his attendant, but Porter walked through an opening on the far side of the prison that had not been there previously. The soft soled sandals he wore made very little noise against the marble flooring and he was able to walk the length of the room rather unnoticed. The prisoners that noticed him quieted in his presence, they knew better than to try to anger the thing that kept their cells at a reasonable temperature and the ceiling from falling in on them. Like the child that lay dead on the floor, Porter's physical body looked like that of a very normal human being. He wore a plain robe and stood before Anther with an unblinking, neutral expression on his face.
"Turn yourself in, resisting arrest will only make matters worse for you. The Judges may even decide to go easy on you if you are willing to help them."
Porter decided on trying to appeal to the thief in way that wouldn't send him into a state of panic. It was dangerous considering what had happened to his attendant, but Porter walked through an opening on the far side of the prison that had not been there previously. The soft soled sandals he wore made very little noise against the marble flooring and he was able to walk the length of the room rather unnoticed. The prisoners that noticed him quieted in his presence, they knew better than to try to anger the thing that kept their cells at a reasonable temperature and the ceiling from falling in on them. Like the child that lay dead on the floor, Porter's physical body looked like that of a very normal human being. He wore a plain robe and stood before Anther with an unblinking, neutral expression on his face.
"Turn yourself in, resisting arrest will only make matters worse for you. The Judges may even decide to go easy on you if you are willing to help them."
You corporeal beings are so touchy.
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Tsaikatlaua
- Citizen
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Tue Dec 02, 2008 5:39 am
- Name: Tsai
- Race: gods-blessed human
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Things had gotten out of hand quickly, and Tsaikatlaua's brain whirled trying to keep up. She always saw the big picture, looked at things that were important on a larger scale than the lives of those around her... and herself, if it came down to it.
What had immediately caught her attention, though, was the fact that her thief was breaking before her eyes. She released the man she held and turned her full attention in his direction and bellowed, drill-sergeant like, "If you turn on me I can guarantee your death five seconds later!" Too late, she realized that he was no longer there. She shrieked a curse--for all her plans, she had to get the weakling. In hindsight, she would have come to the conclusion that she should have coddled him, protected him, not threatened him, at least insofar as it was beneficial to her.
But she couldn't stop now. She was closer than she'd been yet--she could feel the book pulsing in response to magic that it knew, the magic tainted with the scents of home. One had come who could use it, although she hesitated to try and channel its power until she could actually touch it.
Tsaikatlaua locked eyes with the battlemage that was manipulating the air. She felt the cold sink in and shuddered before bringing her own power to bear, the one that the gods had augmented. She'd kept the rain she'd summoned when spooking and soaking Anther the first time in the back of her mind, and she quickly came to the conclusion that there was little enough moisture to speak of in the air. Snarling like a jaguar--was there a connection there? She couldn't remember--she raised her hands, feeling the water in the air seep through every available opening in the building, the electrics shorting out and the heavy doors below shuddering with the impact of the sudden wind blowing moisture through them, driving it into the wood.
When there was enough to work with--the work of but a few seconds, even in the horridly dry land--she brought it to bear, heating the water to combat the freeze of the chemicals she knew nothing about. Humidity soaked the room, and Tsaikatlaua was in her element. She nearly lost it when a... thing... appeared in her mind, but the heat enabled her to think, and she worked at convincing herself that it was merely a figure from a priest's mad dream. She had seen worse. Nevertheless, to make it go away she began to scream, high-pitched and ululating, "By the gods I was made, by the gods I was born, from the gods I came, to the gods I go, by the gods I was made..." It was nonsensical, useless babbling--and yet it centered her and gave her focus. She dodged the astral blade almost without a conscious thought, a directive from whatever was starting to control her.
What had immediately caught her attention, though, was the fact that her thief was breaking before her eyes. She released the man she held and turned her full attention in his direction and bellowed, drill-sergeant like, "If you turn on me I can guarantee your death five seconds later!" Too late, she realized that he was no longer there. She shrieked a curse--for all her plans, she had to get the weakling. In hindsight, she would have come to the conclusion that she should have coddled him, protected him, not threatened him, at least insofar as it was beneficial to her.
But she couldn't stop now. She was closer than she'd been yet--she could feel the book pulsing in response to magic that it knew, the magic tainted with the scents of home. One had come who could use it, although she hesitated to try and channel its power until she could actually touch it.
Tsaikatlaua locked eyes with the battlemage that was manipulating the air. She felt the cold sink in and shuddered before bringing her own power to bear, the one that the gods had augmented. She'd kept the rain she'd summoned when spooking and soaking Anther the first time in the back of her mind, and she quickly came to the conclusion that there was little enough moisture to speak of in the air. Snarling like a jaguar--was there a connection there? She couldn't remember--she raised her hands, feeling the water in the air seep through every available opening in the building, the electrics shorting out and the heavy doors below shuddering with the impact of the sudden wind blowing moisture through them, driving it into the wood.
When there was enough to work with--the work of but a few seconds, even in the horridly dry land--she brought it to bear, heating the water to combat the freeze of the chemicals she knew nothing about. Humidity soaked the room, and Tsaikatlaua was in her element. She nearly lost it when a... thing... appeared in her mind, but the heat enabled her to think, and she worked at convincing herself that it was merely a figure from a priest's mad dream. She had seen worse. Nevertheless, to make it go away she began to scream, high-pitched and ululating, "By the gods I was made, by the gods I was born, from the gods I came, to the gods I go, by the gods I was made..." It was nonsensical, useless babbling--and yet it centered her and gave her focus. She dodged the astral blade almost without a conscious thought, a directive from whatever was starting to control her.
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Gachety's Boys
- Outsider
- Posts: 12
- Joined: Wed Mar 31, 2010 1:11 pm
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Chet was loyal to his superiors, that was a fact. Indeed, his loyalty could conceivably be presented as a plain fact of physics, because any shifting of his loyalties would have to be accomplished by a feat of brainwashing beyond the realm of natural physics.
Chet was also careful, and clever. He was good for more than just indiscriminately following orders, and that's why he was in a position of leadership. Sometimes he had to improvise. In case his superiors turned out to find his actions disagreeable, it was helpful that he could turn his own powers of memory severing on himself, and honestly plead ignorance. He did want to please them.
This was one situation that his superiors had assessed incorrectly. Too high a priority had been placed on the life of Tsaikatlaua. It wouldn't do to hold themselves back in hopes of cushioning her. He couldn't treat this mission as a mere drill for the boys.
Outside of Chet's watchful line of sight, Tatha was losing his grip. His nitrogen molecules, kept artificially cold, were in conflict with Tsaikatlaua's artificially warm water molecules. Physics itself was a tricky enough foe for magic casters--he didn't need the added stress of contrary magic. Neither caster's magic would bend for the other unless one lost their concentration. Physics tried to disagree, and only added a lot of noise to the mix. A small, fierce wind whipped between the elf and the shifter as the hot and cold pushed and shoved through the air.
Tatha was beginning to feel rash. He lifted his right hand to his mouth and used his teeth to pull his glove off. He swiped the churning air with his bare palm. In its wake fluttered a strange, shimmering swath of gas. The ionized oxygen was a hairy beast to control, and Tatha devoted his frazzled senses over to his new creation.
The ungoverned nitrogen droplets gradually began to give in to the heat of the water vapor in the air, but not without some compromise. The wind of scorned physics continued to swirl angrily around Tatha and Tsaikatlaua, and some of the water vapor she had summoned acquiesced to the cold of the nitrogen. As the liquid nitrogen resumed its natural gaseous state, a modest condensation of water dripped around on the floor.
Chet felt the shift. At first he had assumed it was just the wind. Having seen his fair share of action as a mage, he was not unfamiliar with the racket created when irreconcilable magics collided. It wasn't until a drip of cool water plopped right onto his nose that he glanced up and realized Tatha was no longer fighting hot with cold. Chet had been readying himself to do what he had decided was necessary, to slice off the woman's legs, but he paused, palm held stiffly in mid-air. He saw the strain around his protege's eyes, and how the boy looked up at the practically invisible column of plasma he was commanding.
The column of highly conductive ionized gas was not entirely straight--it snaked towards the corner of the ceiling, where sparks jumped erratically from a light fixture that had been disturbed by the invading water. He couldn't see the column, exactly, but he knew what its goal was--and how they'd know when it had reached it.
A mere second or two after Tatha had turned his attention to manipulating plasma, a loud buzz and a crack echoed through the room. A bright bolt jumped from the light fixture to the most enticing figure in the range of the ionized oxygen, the woman who was standing in a puddle of water. She was struck down by the small bolt. The electric light, and the others in the room on the same circuit, shorted out entirely.
Porter was thoughtful enough to immediately fire up the oil sconces on the walls. They were so much less sterile than the electric lighting, and sometimes left traces of soot, those old sconces, but he was kind enough to provide light to his humans, who needed it to see. Sometimes, Chet thought as he caught his breath for a moment, Porter did show an awareness of the human sensory experience.
The shifter lay wet and slightly singed on the floor. She was probably not dead. It couldn't have been that bad a shock. It depended on the person, though. Not everyone had been acclimatized to receiving electric shocks on a regular basis, like Chet and his boys.
Chet threw a stern look over his shoulder to Lemboysas, who looked even more chinless in the dim, oily light. He stopped his ratcheting and grinned unpleasantly at the felled woman. Tatha sobbed quietly and dry heaved at the smell of ozone and burnt hair.
"Nobody--" Chet slammed his right blade into the right wall again. "Speak." He did the same on the left side of the room. He had dislodged some dust and chunks of rock that swirled weakly in the last small gusts of wind before falling still.
Chet was also careful, and clever. He was good for more than just indiscriminately following orders, and that's why he was in a position of leadership. Sometimes he had to improvise. In case his superiors turned out to find his actions disagreeable, it was helpful that he could turn his own powers of memory severing on himself, and honestly plead ignorance. He did want to please them.
This was one situation that his superiors had assessed incorrectly. Too high a priority had been placed on the life of Tsaikatlaua. It wouldn't do to hold themselves back in hopes of cushioning her. He couldn't treat this mission as a mere drill for the boys.
Outside of Chet's watchful line of sight, Tatha was losing his grip. His nitrogen molecules, kept artificially cold, were in conflict with Tsaikatlaua's artificially warm water molecules. Physics itself was a tricky enough foe for magic casters--he didn't need the added stress of contrary magic. Neither caster's magic would bend for the other unless one lost their concentration. Physics tried to disagree, and only added a lot of noise to the mix. A small, fierce wind whipped between the elf and the shifter as the hot and cold pushed and shoved through the air.
Tatha was beginning to feel rash. He lifted his right hand to his mouth and used his teeth to pull his glove off. He swiped the churning air with his bare palm. In its wake fluttered a strange, shimmering swath of gas. The ionized oxygen was a hairy beast to control, and Tatha devoted his frazzled senses over to his new creation.
The ungoverned nitrogen droplets gradually began to give in to the heat of the water vapor in the air, but not without some compromise. The wind of scorned physics continued to swirl angrily around Tatha and Tsaikatlaua, and some of the water vapor she had summoned acquiesced to the cold of the nitrogen. As the liquid nitrogen resumed its natural gaseous state, a modest condensation of water dripped around on the floor.
Chet felt the shift. At first he had assumed it was just the wind. Having seen his fair share of action as a mage, he was not unfamiliar with the racket created when irreconcilable magics collided. It wasn't until a drip of cool water plopped right onto his nose that he glanced up and realized Tatha was no longer fighting hot with cold. Chet had been readying himself to do what he had decided was necessary, to slice off the woman's legs, but he paused, palm held stiffly in mid-air. He saw the strain around his protege's eyes, and how the boy looked up at the practically invisible column of plasma he was commanding.
The column of highly conductive ionized gas was not entirely straight--it snaked towards the corner of the ceiling, where sparks jumped erratically from a light fixture that had been disturbed by the invading water. He couldn't see the column, exactly, but he knew what its goal was--and how they'd know when it had reached it.
A mere second or two after Tatha had turned his attention to manipulating plasma, a loud buzz and a crack echoed through the room. A bright bolt jumped from the light fixture to the most enticing figure in the range of the ionized oxygen, the woman who was standing in a puddle of water. She was struck down by the small bolt. The electric light, and the others in the room on the same circuit, shorted out entirely.
Porter was thoughtful enough to immediately fire up the oil sconces on the walls. They were so much less sterile than the electric lighting, and sometimes left traces of soot, those old sconces, but he was kind enough to provide light to his humans, who needed it to see. Sometimes, Chet thought as he caught his breath for a moment, Porter did show an awareness of the human sensory experience.
The shifter lay wet and slightly singed on the floor. She was probably not dead. It couldn't have been that bad a shock. It depended on the person, though. Not everyone had been acclimatized to receiving electric shocks on a regular basis, like Chet and his boys.
Chet threw a stern look over his shoulder to Lemboysas, who looked even more chinless in the dim, oily light. He stopped his ratcheting and grinned unpleasantly at the felled woman. Tatha sobbed quietly and dry heaved at the smell of ozone and burnt hair.
"Nobody--" Chet slammed his right blade into the right wall again. "Speak." He did the same on the left side of the room. He had dislodged some dust and chunks of rock that swirled weakly in the last small gusts of wind before falling still.
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
He was presented with a choice that only he could make for himself. Without the interference of voices within his head second guessing his choices and making him regret his decisions before he could even make them, he was left with only his own lack of confidence in his decision making.
On the one side he could drag himself down the stairs again. It would be dark and with any luck he would not have to face the threat that awaited him on the other side of alter room, however descending the stairs would also place him in a position where he would be trapped between the body of a helplessly dead child and that of impending imprisonment.
On the other hand, he could remain where he was and watch as his companions were overtaken by the men in armor. Hiding in the shadows and watching others meet an untimely death invoked some sort of feelings of shame or guilt within him. He knew that he was not responsible for the actions of the others or what was to happen to them, but at the same time there was something within him that screamed that it was just wrong to stand back and do nothing when others were being harmed. Maybe it was a sense of morals or some lasting impression of an ethical code that his mother had tried to pass on to him, but whatever it was, it just wouldn't be satisfied with him hiding in the shadows and watching others die.
He wanted to run and hide. If only it were that simple, he thought. It wasn't that simple though. He was trapped between two horrible places and there was no place to run, that is if he could even manage to run.
He felt his feet making their way down the steps before he had even made up his mind. It is the better of the two options, he tried to tell himself. He would never survive an altercation between armed men, and so a life behind bars would be better than no life at all. Right?
There was nobody to answer the unspoken questions of his mind. He was alone. In the poorly lit basement dungeon, below the strange marble building of equally strange yet somehow almost familiar magic, he was alone with nobody to look to for answers but the strangers that had dragged him into this mess. And they were being rounded up one by one. For once he actually missed the presence of his Master.
On the one side he could drag himself down the stairs again. It would be dark and with any luck he would not have to face the threat that awaited him on the other side of alter room, however descending the stairs would also place him in a position where he would be trapped between the body of a helplessly dead child and that of impending imprisonment.
On the other hand, he could remain where he was and watch as his companions were overtaken by the men in armor. Hiding in the shadows and watching others meet an untimely death invoked some sort of feelings of shame or guilt within him. He knew that he was not responsible for the actions of the others or what was to happen to them, but at the same time there was something within him that screamed that it was just wrong to stand back and do nothing when others were being harmed. Maybe it was a sense of morals or some lasting impression of an ethical code that his mother had tried to pass on to him, but whatever it was, it just wouldn't be satisfied with him hiding in the shadows and watching others die.
He wanted to run and hide. If only it were that simple, he thought. It wasn't that simple though. He was trapped between two horrible places and there was no place to run, that is if he could even manage to run.
He felt his feet making their way down the steps before he had even made up his mind. It is the better of the two options, he tried to tell himself. He would never survive an altercation between armed men, and so a life behind bars would be better than no life at all. Right?
There was nobody to answer the unspoken questions of his mind. He was alone. In the poorly lit basement dungeon, below the strange marble building of equally strange yet somehow almost familiar magic, he was alone with nobody to look to for answers but the strangers that had dragged him into this mess. And they were being rounded up one by one. For once he actually missed the presence of his Master.
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Lemboysas' ratcheting had saved Sagath from Yyan's more intense play of mental screaming, buffeting its effect to the edges, where it did not do so much damage as distract, but as Sagath darted in to plunge his knife home the ratcheting stopped, and the shrill mental siren Yyan had called had full and unobstructed access into Sagath's own head. The knife's path had already been focused on Yyan's back, but then it diverted, only glancing off of the other man's arm before clattering to the floor; given premature release as Sagath suddenly found a new use for that hand. He clumsily fell to the floor, hands clapped to his ears as he made garish noises aimed at making that terrible, awful noise inside his head stop.
Chet had told them to not speak, but Sagath hadn't heard it.
Yyan had, and his gaze burned over the room as the second presence ate at him and through him, and he focused down hard to broaden its effect. He intensified his efforts to mentally inhibit those still standing with shrill screaming he produced from thought alone. Louder, harsher: he glared at them as if to dare them, all of them, to make him stop. He could feel pressure building in his mind as the presence demanded key access, to take him over and make him its.
He refused.
Anther did not refuse. He stared up at the white garbed boy that was not a boy, and saliva drooled over the edge of his lower lip, mixed with remnants of bile he could scarce afford to lose. He was wet in ways that didn't bear thinking about, and all that crowded his mind was misery. He did not notice Talion, and even if he had he wouldn't have cared. What had the other thief to offer better than the comforting, bland walls and floor that spelled out a cage, but promised safety from the insanity that carried out around him? This wasn't his place. It wasn't his to disturb, and he had been wrong to not have run screaming when he'd first met Tsai.
He would pay it with his own shabby freedom, but he couldn't comprehend that as he dragged himself into an open, blissfully empty cell, sobbing inarticulate pleas about going home. He didn't care any more, so long as he didn't have to deal with magic and those who used it.
Chet had told them to not speak, but Sagath hadn't heard it.
Yyan had, and his gaze burned over the room as the second presence ate at him and through him, and he focused down hard to broaden its effect. He intensified his efforts to mentally inhibit those still standing with shrill screaming he produced from thought alone. Louder, harsher: he glared at them as if to dare them, all of them, to make him stop. He could feel pressure building in his mind as the presence demanded key access, to take him over and make him its.
He refused.
Anther did not refuse. He stared up at the white garbed boy that was not a boy, and saliva drooled over the edge of his lower lip, mixed with remnants of bile he could scarce afford to lose. He was wet in ways that didn't bear thinking about, and all that crowded his mind was misery. He did not notice Talion, and even if he had he wouldn't have cared. What had the other thief to offer better than the comforting, bland walls and floor that spelled out a cage, but promised safety from the insanity that carried out around him? This wasn't his place. It wasn't his to disturb, and he had been wrong to not have run screaming when he'd first met Tsai.
He would pay it with his own shabby freedom, but he couldn't comprehend that as he dragged himself into an open, blissfully empty cell, sobbing inarticulate pleas about going home. He didn't care any more, so long as he didn't have to deal with magic and those who used it.
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Porter made no outward sign of showing any emotion regarding the young thief or the miserable way he carried himself into one of the open cells. No smile, no frown, not even a simple blink of his eyelids. He just stood there much like a statue, watching the proceedings. If the basement would have been better lit, it would have only clearly shown just how inhuman a man the Porter was.
At first glance he may have appeared very much human, but it was the subtle yet somewhat obvious little quirks that gave him away. The way he could stand there and speak in a calm, monotonous voice as if he was merely going about his daily routine without incident. The absurdly long periods he could go without inhaling his next breath of air, they way he rarely blinked. Standing face to face, looking into the eyes of the Porter, would be like trying to fine that spark of life within a wooden puppet. You could pull his strings and make him dance, stick your hand up inside of him to make him tell jokes, but if you left him on his own he could not live on his own.
Porter was like that puppet, as much as he could fake his humanity to make those that worked around him feel more comfortable about his existence, the Porter was not like everybody else. He was that living, yet not fully alive, mannequin who wanted nothing more than to serve the wishes of his unseen puppeteer.
At first glance he may have appeared very much human, but it was the subtle yet somewhat obvious little quirks that gave him away. The way he could stand there and speak in a calm, monotonous voice as if he was merely going about his daily routine without incident. The absurdly long periods he could go without inhaling his next breath of air, they way he rarely blinked. Standing face to face, looking into the eyes of the Porter, would be like trying to fine that spark of life within a wooden puppet. You could pull his strings and make him dance, stick your hand up inside of him to make him tell jokes, but if you left him on his own he could not live on his own.
Porter was like that puppet, as much as he could fake his humanity to make those that worked around him feel more comfortable about his existence, the Porter was not like everybody else. He was that living, yet not fully alive, mannequin who wanted nothing more than to serve the wishes of his unseen puppeteer.
You corporeal beings are so touchy.
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Gachety's Boys
- Outsider
- Posts: 12
- Joined: Wed Mar 31, 2010 1:11 pm
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Tatha's weak will was such a constant disappointment. Chet tried not to let it show so deeply in his eyes as he glanced back at the boy. Still--if it wasn't his lack of concentration, then it was his emotional caving. If he didn't learn some self-discipline soon, then he'd probably simply crumble to the external discipline. He wouldn't be the first.
At least Tatha didn't seem to be upset in particular by Yyan's screaming. None of the mages were. The voice was just an indistinct addition to the din that already echoed in their heads, and which probably would as long as they lived. Perhaps Lemboysas didn't distance his consciousness so carefully from it, but that would be because the emotional anguish of others made him so giddy. That boy was probably letting Yyan's mental cries come through periodically, dosing himself as with a drug.
Chet didn't need to close his eyes and search Yyan's head to know that this was the other one Porter wanted alive. It was tiresome. His invisible, projected blades were still stiffly embedded in the walls on either side of the room. He relaxed his arms at the elbows to withdraw them.
Tatha glanced up and haltingly nodded his obedience as Chet motioned towards the stairs. He traipsed an arc around Yyan and Sagath--both so distracted by their own pursuits--and made his way down the stairs.
Chet inhaled and exhaled thoughtfully, considered his situation. In front of him, there was the cowering boy, certainly not a threat to security. And then there was the stubborn mage who was being willfully non-compliant. Tiresome, tiresome. The skin around Chet's eyes was creased beyond his years with the sage weariness of a mentor. For just a moment, his brow hardened, and he did something hasty: he engaged the blade of his right hand again and swiped at Yyan's legs. He wasn't even aiming with the carefulness that would be needed to spare Sagath.
At least Tatha didn't seem to be upset in particular by Yyan's screaming. None of the mages were. The voice was just an indistinct addition to the din that already echoed in their heads, and which probably would as long as they lived. Perhaps Lemboysas didn't distance his consciousness so carefully from it, but that would be because the emotional anguish of others made him so giddy. That boy was probably letting Yyan's mental cries come through periodically, dosing himself as with a drug.
Chet didn't need to close his eyes and search Yyan's head to know that this was the other one Porter wanted alive. It was tiresome. His invisible, projected blades were still stiffly embedded in the walls on either side of the room. He relaxed his arms at the elbows to withdraw them.
Tatha glanced up and haltingly nodded his obedience as Chet motioned towards the stairs. He traipsed an arc around Yyan and Sagath--both so distracted by their own pursuits--and made his way down the stairs.
Chet inhaled and exhaled thoughtfully, considered his situation. In front of him, there was the cowering boy, certainly not a threat to security. And then there was the stubborn mage who was being willfully non-compliant. Tiresome, tiresome. The skin around Chet's eyes was creased beyond his years with the sage weariness of a mentor. For just a moment, his brow hardened, and he did something hasty: he engaged the blade of his right hand again and swiped at Yyan's legs. He wasn't even aiming with the carefulness that would be needed to spare Sagath.
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Only a few seconds. Yyan only needed a few seconds. He was aware, despite the concentration needed for his projection, and watched Chet's movement towards him with concentration. He knew the other was not coming towards him to submit. He quickened his mind, and pushed everything else aside. Milliseconds passed, and he looked for his allies. Sagath at his feet. Tsaikatlaua downed nearer the mages. Talion and Anther were not in his line of sight. He was alone, and he stepped back in time to avoid being sliced down to the bone, receiving instead twin cuts that snapped at his mind with the heat of a fire and then went numb.
His mind slowed, and he looked down in time to see Sagath roll away from him with a deeply cut shoulder. Yyan's mental scream had stopped, but now Sagath had found something new to yell about, and he wept his anguish loudly and with enough misery to make Yyan wince. But Yyan had nothing else to give. He could not help Tsaikatlaua, and he was unwilling to die in sacrifice to that short lived term of service. She had been his mistress, but now there was nothing else to give.
The cuts on his legs started to burn, and blood dampened his pants. He lifted his hands, palms outwards, and stared mutely at Chet. He surrendered to the blood spilling at his feet, seeping down his legs and puddling around Sagath's deeply injured shoulder. It was over.
His mind slowed, and he looked down in time to see Sagath roll away from him with a deeply cut shoulder. Yyan's mental scream had stopped, but now Sagath had found something new to yell about, and he wept his anguish loudly and with enough misery to make Yyan wince. But Yyan had nothing else to give. He could not help Tsaikatlaua, and he was unwilling to die in sacrifice to that short lived term of service. She had been his mistress, but now there was nothing else to give.
The cuts on his legs started to burn, and blood dampened his pants. He lifted his hands, palms outwards, and stared mutely at Chet. He surrendered to the blood spilling at his feet, seeping down his legs and puddling around Sagath's deeply injured shoulder. It was over.
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Before Talion had had the chance to safely make it down the flight of stairs that had lead into the basement, Yyan's screaming had brought him down to his knees. His walking stick had fallen from his hand and clattered against the stone steps as he was forced to clamp his hands over his ears. It did nothing to help stop the screaming though, unlike an external noise that could be muffled, this screaming rattled his brain without a way for him to interfere.
He had lost the ability to think clearly, or think at all under the noise. He lost his balance and had to rely on gravity to carry him the rest of the way down. Gravity was not kind to the young elf. Talion fell face first down the steps and landed on his stomach, with his feet raised above his head. Any chance he had at remaining hidden was now gone.
Talion tried to use his arms as leverage to push himself up, but he just couldn't. He was stuck, laying on the bottom steps with his face to the cold, hard floor below.
Porter, who had been dealing with the other thief, turned to acknowledge the one on the stairs for the first time. "If you had done as you were told and turned yourself in, you would not have found yourself in such a position." Then to Chet to spoke privately. There are two more downstairs, they should not give you any trouble.
He had lost the ability to think clearly, or think at all under the noise. He lost his balance and had to rely on gravity to carry him the rest of the way down. Gravity was not kind to the young elf. Talion fell face first down the steps and landed on his stomach, with his feet raised above his head. Any chance he had at remaining hidden was now gone.
Talion tried to use his arms as leverage to push himself up, but he just couldn't. He was stuck, laying on the bottom steps with his face to the cold, hard floor below.
Porter, who had been dealing with the other thief, turned to acknowledge the one on the stairs for the first time. "If you had done as you were told and turned yourself in, you would not have found yourself in such a position." Then to Chet to spoke privately. There are two more downstairs, they should not give you any trouble.
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Gachety's Boys
- Outsider
- Posts: 12
- Joined: Wed Mar 31, 2010 1:11 pm
Re: Borrowing Back Taken Magic
Gachety had only a few times before in his life experienced the strange and conflicted gratitude he felt in the moment just after Yyan stepped back, but he knew the feeling and reconciled it. It was gratitude to the perpetrator, not for compliance or anything resembling it, but for the smallest act of free agency that saved himself from death, or at least maiming. That was a satisfying perpetrator--not so willful as the lady shifter had been, but just disobedient enough that Chet's particular use of force would be that much easier to explain. If he had cut off the man's legs, he might have been explaining himself for hours, and he did want to get home in time to celebrate his youngest's birthday with the family. The howling youth was nothing to be concerned about.
Chet stood there before the two wounded and narrowed his stance just enough to signify his intent that the fighting was over. He reached up to rub the back of his neck with a hand that was no longer invisibly lethal. "Surely Porter was clear with you all about the consequences of your choices," he said in what was supposed to be a level tone, but had to be raised to a near shout in order to be heard over Sagath's keening. He didn't see any reason to add that this stage of things was really only the prelude to the real misery that was to come. They might continue to fight, if for the slightest chance of escaping that.
On the steps, Tatha found himself startled by the figure that tripped in front of him. Surely Tatha hadn't seen someone on the landing before him. But there indeed was someone who must have been running down just before he arrived, only to block the foot of the steps in such pathetic posture. Tatha picked his way down the stairs and looked past the first figure to the equally pathetic second figure. He didn't let his gaze fall too deliberately on Porter, for he couldn't grudge the boy his distaste for the being in his corporeal form. "You're both under arrest," he said, with the same tone one might take when bringing the neighbor's runaway beagle back to the front stoop. After a pause he gave an awkward smile through his overbite and held up a pair of wristcuffs in each hand.
Lemboysas was unofficially charged with the task of watching the incapacitated Tsaikatlaua. In spite of his sadistic tendencies, he behaved himself--more because there was no active mind to toy with than out of restraint. And the fact that he didn't turn his attentions to harassing the vulnerable Sagath was entirely due to the modicum of obedience he held to his mentor.
"Be quiet, they're coming soon," Gachety sighed as he shook his head at Sagath. "They" were the auxiliary staff that Porter would call as he saw fit. The cleaners, of course. Some medical staff to prolong the existence of the perpetrators. Some escorts to where they would take the arrested.
He stepped towards Yyan with a calm glare and showed him the wristcuffs he had pulled from his pocket. They were really more a formality, the cuffs: slim hoops of silver alloy with simple clasps and too-tight chains. The point was to demarcate the arrested, and to bend them and cause them discomfort (severe discomfort in the case of shifters, because their uppitiness in breaching generous laws was so worthy of scorn). The point was not to subdue them physically so much as mentally. Chet wagged the wristcuffs and nodded in indication that he'd like Yyan to turn around.
Chet stood there before the two wounded and narrowed his stance just enough to signify his intent that the fighting was over. He reached up to rub the back of his neck with a hand that was no longer invisibly lethal. "Surely Porter was clear with you all about the consequences of your choices," he said in what was supposed to be a level tone, but had to be raised to a near shout in order to be heard over Sagath's keening. He didn't see any reason to add that this stage of things was really only the prelude to the real misery that was to come. They might continue to fight, if for the slightest chance of escaping that.
On the steps, Tatha found himself startled by the figure that tripped in front of him. Surely Tatha hadn't seen someone on the landing before him. But there indeed was someone who must have been running down just before he arrived, only to block the foot of the steps in such pathetic posture. Tatha picked his way down the stairs and looked past the first figure to the equally pathetic second figure. He didn't let his gaze fall too deliberately on Porter, for he couldn't grudge the boy his distaste for the being in his corporeal form. "You're both under arrest," he said, with the same tone one might take when bringing the neighbor's runaway beagle back to the front stoop. After a pause he gave an awkward smile through his overbite and held up a pair of wristcuffs in each hand.
Lemboysas was unofficially charged with the task of watching the incapacitated Tsaikatlaua. In spite of his sadistic tendencies, he behaved himself--more because there was no active mind to toy with than out of restraint. And the fact that he didn't turn his attentions to harassing the vulnerable Sagath was entirely due to the modicum of obedience he held to his mentor.
"Be quiet, they're coming soon," Gachety sighed as he shook his head at Sagath. "They" were the auxiliary staff that Porter would call as he saw fit. The cleaners, of course. Some medical staff to prolong the existence of the perpetrators. Some escorts to where they would take the arrested.
He stepped towards Yyan with a calm glare and showed him the wristcuffs he had pulled from his pocket. They were really more a formality, the cuffs: slim hoops of silver alloy with simple clasps and too-tight chains. The point was to demarcate the arrested, and to bend them and cause them discomfort (severe discomfort in the case of shifters, because their uppitiness in breaching generous laws was so worthy of scorn). The point was not to subdue them physically so much as mentally. Chet wagged the wristcuffs and nodded in indication that he'd like Yyan to turn around.