[ He sees the sword coming towards him, so he acts on instinct and just.
grabs it.
The gloves he's been wearing stop only so much damage from happening. His right hand is his dominant one; the blade digs into his palm, and he doesn't feel a thing. His two outer fingers curl around it first, and just like that they're gone, cut off at the base.
He doesn't notice. All that he can think about now is to eliminate this thing that would dare come at him, so in his next motion he reaches out with his left hand. Doesn't feel the blade dig into it, either, as he uses all his strength — he has never been stronger before; he doesn't think to question it, never before has the world made so much sense — and wrenches the sword from Rand's grasp just as he backs up, loses his balance. In sole possession of the weapon that's digging into his palms, he gives it one look, teeth bared as though it's personally offended him, and in a clean motion brings his thigh up, snaps the blade clean in two over it. He throws the pieces away, opposite directions, much farther than he probably should be able to and paying no mind to how freely his hands are bleeding now.
He looks back up at Rand, snarl on his face as he goes for what he expects to be the first blow of many, right hand connecting with the side of his head, knocking him out cold and
And then thoughts start to permeate his mind again, distant and hazy but there: what the fuck and how the fuck as pain explodes back into his senses. Amos yells with it, human and falling back into himself, but the fact that he's got a prone Pleroma right in front of him takes priority, so.
He doesn't even look at his hands; he knows they hurt like hell, there's no point. He just leans over to grab Rand, heft him up over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He'll take him back to their base. Reassess the damage from there.
It's a win; he's not looking to try to stretch it out into anything more. ]
z told me to godmod, nobody @ me ... also cw amputation, blood
grabs it.
The gloves he's been wearing stop only so much damage from happening. His right hand is his dominant one; the blade digs into his palm, and he doesn't feel a thing. His two outer fingers curl around it first, and just like that they're gone, cut off at the base.
He doesn't notice. All that he can think about now is to eliminate this thing that would dare come at him, so in his next motion he reaches out with his left hand. Doesn't feel the blade dig into it, either, as he uses all his strength — he has never been stronger before; he doesn't think to question it, never before has the world made so much sense — and wrenches the sword from Rand's grasp just as he backs up, loses his balance. In sole possession of the weapon that's digging into his palms, he gives it one look, teeth bared as though it's personally offended him, and in a clean motion brings his thigh up, snaps the blade clean in two over it. He throws the pieces away, opposite directions, much farther than he probably should be able to and paying no mind to how freely his hands are bleeding now.
He looks back up at Rand, snarl on his face as he goes for what he expects to be the first blow of many, right hand connecting with the side of his head, knocking him out cold and
And then thoughts start to permeate his mind again, distant and hazy but there: what the fuck and how the fuck as pain explodes back into his senses. Amos yells with it, human and falling back into himself, but the fact that he's got a prone Pleroma right in front of him takes priority, so.
He doesn't even look at his hands; he knows they hurt like hell, there's no point. He just leans over to grab Rand, heft him up over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He'll take him back to their base. Reassess the damage from there.
It's a win; he's not looking to try to stretch it out into anything more. ]