this power has been at this boy's hands the whole time?
--Abel has no time to contemplate the abilities he has not seen before; instead, he's quickly ducking to shield Dokja's already fragile and vulnerable head from any further injury, the cloak enough to protect his ward from the remaining bits of shrapnel. it's becoming apparent that there's a need for cover; the priest has barely begun moving when that fist-sized projectile is shooting forth and glances, nicks right off his left temple. with a small, calculated burst of acceleration to boost his momentum, he's sliding behind the cover of a pillar in the shrine just wide enough to safely cover his back.
close... too close; he's being careless, too concerned for Dokja's waning vitality and the strained, painful sound of his breathing in Abel's arms. it's feeding the simmering pit of desperation gnawing at his insides. wasting time... this is just wasted time-- is he going to fail this man? the baubles that will take the Pleroma to the Lodestone beneath Godsblood take time to work; he has to stall.
...or Dokja and Gen are in serious danger. the pattering of blood, the scent thick and cloying in the air isn't lost to the priest at all-- neither is the ragged, heavy, shallowing sound of Gen's every inhale before being forced from him weighty and weary. the boy is straining himself, closing in on his limit. Dokja, too, is fading too fast.
but he has to wait; be silent. no provocation. wait, wait it out, give Gen nothing. wait to see how close he is to breaking. and if the boy falters... it's time to make a run for the entrance as quickly as he can, to escape to a safe distance until the spell activates. please let this work...
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this power has been at this boy's hands the whole time?
--Abel has no time to contemplate the abilities he has not seen before; instead, he's quickly ducking to shield Dokja's already fragile and vulnerable head from any further injury, the cloak enough to protect his ward from the remaining bits of shrapnel. it's becoming apparent that there's a need for cover; the priest has barely begun moving when that fist-sized projectile is shooting forth and glances, nicks right off his left temple. with a small, calculated burst of acceleration to boost his momentum, he's sliding behind the cover of a pillar in the shrine just wide enough to safely cover his back.
close... too close; he's being careless, too concerned for Dokja's waning vitality and the strained, painful sound of his breathing in Abel's arms. it's feeding the simmering pit of desperation gnawing at his insides. wasting time... this is just wasted time-- is he going to fail this man? the baubles that will take the Pleroma to the Lodestone beneath Godsblood take time to work; he has to stall.
...or Dokja and Gen are in serious danger. the pattering of blood, the scent thick and cloying in the air isn't lost to the priest at all-- neither is the ragged, heavy, shallowing sound of Gen's every inhale before being forced from him weighty and weary. the boy is straining himself, closing in on his limit. Dokja, too, is fading too fast.
but he has to wait; be silent. no provocation. wait, wait it out, give Gen nothing. wait to see how close he is to breaking. and if the boy falters... it's time to make a run for the entrance as quickly as he can, to escape to a safe distance until the spell activates. please let this work...
...please don't let this man-- die. ]