11-07-2017, 09:26 PM
Ned is coughing. Doc kicks the door down, Margot responds and Ned swallows enough blood-tanged spit for his esophagus to begin heaving back at him in rapid fire sprints. He rolls to one side, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain this causes, so as not to allow the pain the coughing causes to be as bad as the pain everywhere else seems to be. The blanket shucks half off of his frame and the concussed tatters of his clothing lie across him like shitty drapes.
The air is...damaged is the best word for it. A tenuous mixture of electricity building on the skin, unhinged wildness climbing at the walls, all of which is consumed by the infinitesimal hovering over the study. One would be hard pressed to feel powerful around the books right now. Meek is a word, perhaps. Wounded, another.
Brittle, probably the best.
Ned drools on the ground, bruising collected along his lips, chin and left cheek. One eye is nearly swollen shut but the other, oddly clear and focused (Pain is familiar) settles on Margot in her chair. He breathes through his teeth, two of which clotted around the gums with blood. His arms fold shakily around his ribs and he simply lays on his side like that because it is the best things get right now.
"I'm pretty stoked about it myself, O'toole." Ned grunts, laying his head down on the cool floor, feeling the slight ridges of cinder marks and burns from the odd ritual stack's sparking. They have melted the floor, pock marks like wax curled up across dozens of small, corrupted spots. The wet pile of mulch that once was the Spire (the ritual's centre) is a hardened bit of gossamer and azure material. Not glass, not plastic but something that squeaks when touched. That feels like a thin layer of oysters over shark-skin. The destruction is not complete and utter. It is segregated to spots and sections. Some furniture is untouched, like the chair Margot had passed out in. Some is blasted to a new colour, shape and design. The books in the library are much the same condition, with five puddles of the same odd material situated on bookshelves around the table Ned lies near, with a single pile atop the table itself.
Ned keeps his eyes closed when the Doc and Kiara enter. He doesn't bother saying anything more than "Welcome back", voice cracking slightly but noticeably enough that he clears his throat. Winces and hums in utter discontentment.
The air is charged. Each breath is a battle. Will is utterly lost to the world.
Oorah.
The air is...damaged is the best word for it. A tenuous mixture of electricity building on the skin, unhinged wildness climbing at the walls, all of which is consumed by the infinitesimal hovering over the study. One would be hard pressed to feel powerful around the books right now. Meek is a word, perhaps. Wounded, another.
Brittle, probably the best.
Ned drools on the ground, bruising collected along his lips, chin and left cheek. One eye is nearly swollen shut but the other, oddly clear and focused (Pain is familiar) settles on Margot in her chair. He breathes through his teeth, two of which clotted around the gums with blood. His arms fold shakily around his ribs and he simply lays on his side like that because it is the best things get right now.
"I'm pretty stoked about it myself, O'toole." Ned grunts, laying his head down on the cool floor, feeling the slight ridges of cinder marks and burns from the odd ritual stack's sparking. They have melted the floor, pock marks like wax curled up across dozens of small, corrupted spots. The wet pile of mulch that once was the Spire (the ritual's centre) is a hardened bit of gossamer and azure material. Not glass, not plastic but something that squeaks when touched. That feels like a thin layer of oysters over shark-skin. The destruction is not complete and utter. It is segregated to spots and sections. Some furniture is untouched, like the chair Margot had passed out in. Some is blasted to a new colour, shape and design. The books in the library are much the same condition, with five puddles of the same odd material situated on bookshelves around the table Ned lies near, with a single pile atop the table itself.
Ned keeps his eyes closed when the Doc and Kiara enter. He doesn't bother saying anything more than "Welcome back", voice cracking slightly but noticeably enough that he clears his throat. Winces and hums in utter discontentment.
The air is charged. Each breath is a battle. Will is utterly lost to the world.
Oorah.