[Better far, Myr thinks, if Linden had let him batter himself against the barrier for however long that took, whatever damage it did. This would feel earned, the wounds accrued fitting punishment for this necessary betrayal.
It could not hurt more than being reminded of their friendship, even now.
He does not move away as Linden approaches, lifting his head with ears laid flat to his neck. Those eyes not left scorched, blinded, bleeding by the shocks paint a fractured picture of the Witch: Painfully thin, hollow-eyed, bloodied (oh, no; not you as well, Linden, though it's thought with resignation and no surprise)--the very image of frail ill health.
Every instinct of chivalry drilled into Myr's head named it wrong to fight an opponent like that; the Maker wept to see the strong crush the weak. Magic may be the equalizer between them but that mere fact makes Myr no more ready to bring physical force against someone who looks (is) deserving of his protection instead.
But needs must. What little he can perceive of the rest of the battle would go all the worse if he fails to stop Linden.]
Expected isn't deserved. [You shouldn't have to believe the world is always and only this way. ]
Forgive me.
[The actinic light of the chain reflects wetly in his eyes. Myr draws back from it, tossing his antlers and showing teeth. It's half-feigned; he lets instinct guide him in the retreat to make it appear real--up until some battlefield distraction (a flutter of dark wings overhead, a shout, a spray of razor shards spalled from the ice-wall) gives him cover to charge.
A feint toward Linden's left, not meant to connect but to test his opponent's intentions with the spell.]
no subject
It could not hurt more than being reminded of their friendship, even now.
He does not move away as Linden approaches, lifting his head with ears laid flat to his neck. Those eyes not left scorched, blinded, bleeding by the shocks paint a fractured picture of the Witch: Painfully thin, hollow-eyed, bloodied (oh, no; not you as well, Linden, though it's thought with resignation and no surprise)--the very image of frail ill health.
Every instinct of chivalry drilled into Myr's head named it wrong to fight an opponent like that; the Maker wept to see the strong crush the weak. Magic may be the equalizer between them but that mere fact makes Myr no more ready to bring physical force against someone who looks (is) deserving of his protection instead.
But needs must. What little he can perceive of the rest of the battle would go all the worse if he fails to stop Linden.]
Expected isn't deserved. [You shouldn't have to believe the world is always and only this way. ]
Forgive me.
[The actinic light of the chain reflects wetly in his eyes. Myr draws back from it, tossing his antlers and showing teeth. It's half-feigned; he lets instinct guide him in the retreat to make it appear real--up until some battlefield distraction (a flutter of dark wings overhead, a shout, a spray of razor shards spalled from the ice-wall) gives him cover to charge.
A feint toward Linden's left, not meant to connect but to test his opponent's intentions with the spell.]