Waver shrinks from the noise, his sharper senses overwhelmed on all fronts, buffeted by the crowds and the shouting, the explosions and the smell of smoke and spilled food and potions-- and, increasingly, blood. The acrid scent of singed flesh.
A young woman carrying a toddler bowls past them, knocking Waver's hand aside momentarily, but he manages to grab onto Ozymandias's wrist right after with only a smarting bruise that won't become apparent until later. Behind him, the shrieking continues. There's smoke rising on the horizon.
His claws lengthen even as Ozymandias tries to shout over the chaos and panic all around them; Waver's grip tightens, fingers curling viciously, digging in as he drags himself closer. The smoke is in his lungs, the blood-scent in his nose, and that persistent, awful screaming--
Waver reaches up with his free hand, using his claws to slash the ties around his throat that keep dragging him back and choking him, letting the cloak fall where it will. It helps. With a solid grip on Ozymandias now and less to impede him, he closes the gap and grabs onto Ozymandias's shirt with his other hand, gripping the hem urgently.
"We have to do something!" The words are nearly garbled by the snarl with which they're delivered, visibly lengthening fangs filling Waver's mouth, his eyes so dark the whites are nearly gone.
He doesn't know what to do. He can't think. He wants to run, claw his way free of all these people, but--
He has too much of a conscience for a mage. Maybe it's part of why he was so bad at it.
Waver shoves his weight forward, pushing Ozymandias backward toward the booth where some monsters are still tied and trapped, and the merrow's screams are waning.
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A young woman carrying a toddler bowls past them, knocking Waver's hand aside momentarily, but he manages to grab onto Ozymandias's wrist right after with only a smarting bruise that won't become apparent until later. Behind him, the shrieking continues. There's smoke rising on the horizon.
His claws lengthen even as Ozymandias tries to shout over the chaos and panic all around them; Waver's grip tightens, fingers curling viciously, digging in as he drags himself closer. The smoke is in his lungs, the blood-scent in his nose, and that persistent, awful screaming--
Waver reaches up with his free hand, using his claws to slash the ties around his throat that keep dragging him back and choking him, letting the cloak fall where it will. It helps. With a solid grip on Ozymandias now and less to impede him, he closes the gap and grabs onto Ozymandias's shirt with his other hand, gripping the hem urgently.
"We have to do something!" The words are nearly garbled by the snarl with which they're delivered, visibly lengthening fangs filling Waver's mouth, his eyes so dark the whites are nearly gone.
He doesn't know what to do. He can't think. He wants to run, claw his way free of all these people, but--
He has too much of a conscience for a mage. Maybe it's part of why he was so bad at it.
Waver shoves his weight forward, pushing Ozymandias backward toward the booth where some monsters are still tied and trapped, and the merrow's screams are waning.
What the hell is the Resistance doing?