With but a touch, Isaac drew the djed from Wrenmae’s body like he’d been punctured with a sieve. Only Miro’s intervention saved Wrenmae from complete magical starvation, but the shock of that touch knocked the hypnotist off his feet and into the mud. His body felt hot and cold all at once and it was impossible to keep from twitching, his arms and legs dancing, devoid of control, as he struggled to recover from the shock.
He tasted blood in his mouth, spat it, lost among the wet mud and shadow, and glared up at Isaac. By now the ghost had begun speaking to Miro again in earnest. The boy had intervened to save his life, but what he was offering couldn’t be more counterproductive. Give a spirit of that power access to a body capable of such resounding feats in reimancy?
Wisely, Wrenmae chose not to intervene or stand, his bedraggled hair falling between an intense gaze that held Miro in a cautionary warning. Wren had vowed to keep Rayage safe, regardless of the cost. The two of them were bound in the streams of fate, or at least until they were forced to part ways. Miro certainly didn’t deserve whatever murderous fates immediately sprung to the mage’s mind…but he was left in conundrum.
How could he hope to combat such a powerful being with so few reserves? What damage could he do that wouldn’t spell the end of his friend? Friends…such a dangerous convention. He was held back from foul play and insincerity merely by the ties of common adventures, opinions, and a closeness shared by two men who had seen too much.
Closing his eyes for a moment, the hypnotist took a breath and slowly rose to his feet.
“You’ve proven your power, Priest,” he said quietly, “I’ll accompany you to the tent of Rayage. Even if I am powerless, I will not lay in the mud while you use my companion like a puppet. I’ll go to retain safety, nothing more.”
In the tent of Rayage, Zan had opened his mouth to speak but moments before Isaacs assaulted his master. Instead of speaking, a keening, burbling cry screeched from Zan’s lungs and his human body fell to its knees, pressing both hands to the side of its head and finally falling over. For a moment, it was still a man, and then body became as water and a human sized floating creature of water and magic hovered where the man had once lay.
“Wrenmae’s been attacked,” the familiar hissed, his voice born of water and rivers, “The ghost touched him and drained his Djed, now it seeks to take Miro’s body to finish the job. They’ll be coming here next.”
Zan soared up, narrowly avoiding the Irylid, and hovered near the ceiling. “Wren says they’ll be coming to the tent. When he wants to be corporeal, he can be, otherwise he remains like a spirit. He doesn’t think he has the power or expertise to remove Isaacs from the body. Wrenmae suggests it may leave the body should the body be damaged and is prepared to stab the boy. He wants to know if a healer is close by or…if…”
The Sarawanki paused, its entire body shivering, “If you have the material to make him one of you…should it come to it.”
He tasted blood in his mouth, spat it, lost among the wet mud and shadow, and glared up at Isaac. By now the ghost had begun speaking to Miro again in earnest. The boy had intervened to save his life, but what he was offering couldn’t be more counterproductive. Give a spirit of that power access to a body capable of such resounding feats in reimancy?
Wisely, Wrenmae chose not to intervene or stand, his bedraggled hair falling between an intense gaze that held Miro in a cautionary warning. Wren had vowed to keep Rayage safe, regardless of the cost. The two of them were bound in the streams of fate, or at least until they were forced to part ways. Miro certainly didn’t deserve whatever murderous fates immediately sprung to the mage’s mind…but he was left in conundrum.
How could he hope to combat such a powerful being with so few reserves? What damage could he do that wouldn’t spell the end of his friend? Friends…such a dangerous convention. He was held back from foul play and insincerity merely by the ties of common adventures, opinions, and a closeness shared by two men who had seen too much.
Closing his eyes for a moment, the hypnotist took a breath and slowly rose to his feet.
“You’ve proven your power, Priest,” he said quietly, “I’ll accompany you to the tent of Rayage. Even if I am powerless, I will not lay in the mud while you use my companion like a puppet. I’ll go to retain safety, nothing more.”
In the tent of Rayage, Zan had opened his mouth to speak but moments before Isaacs assaulted his master. Instead of speaking, a keening, burbling cry screeched from Zan’s lungs and his human body fell to its knees, pressing both hands to the side of its head and finally falling over. For a moment, it was still a man, and then body became as water and a human sized floating creature of water and magic hovered where the man had once lay.
“Wrenmae’s been attacked,” the familiar hissed, his voice born of water and rivers, “The ghost touched him and drained his Djed, now it seeks to take Miro’s body to finish the job. They’ll be coming here next.”
Zan soared up, narrowly avoiding the Irylid, and hovered near the ceiling. “Wren says they’ll be coming to the tent. When he wants to be corporeal, he can be, otherwise he remains like a spirit. He doesn’t think he has the power or expertise to remove Isaacs from the body. Wrenmae suggests it may leave the body should the body be damaged and is prepared to stab the boy. He wants to know if a healer is close by or…if…”
The Sarawanki paused, its entire body shivering, “If you have the material to make him one of you…should it come to it.”
