And it's not even the the throat-clogging swirl of dust in the air, the persistent crackling of falling embers or the faint stench of blood that has him making that assessment. It's when Makoto dares to give him an order (or so he perceives it) that Gen fervently wishes he could turn back time to wash his hands of this whole affair. Eustace is one thing, but M? And it's all in service of saving that asshole? There's disdain clear in the narrowing of Gen's eyes and the wrinkle of his nose as he throws Makoto a sideways glance, a pale sliver of teeth visible with the way his lip curls in distaste. But for better or for worse, whatever shitty retort he might have considered giving never leaves his lips.
It's a blur of movement at the periphery of his vision that has him looking back to Estinien, his stance automatically lowering to something more defensive as he snatches his mace up from its slot at his belt. And that split-second where his body had reacted more quickly than his mind ends up being the only thing that spares him a punctured lung.
Estinien divebombs him almost faster than he can comprehend, and the impact alone sends him skidding back with the grit of dirt beneath his boots. But worse is the feel of those talons digging into his flesh, sliding through skin to into his body like meathooks through a carcass. The arm he'd reflexively braced in a defensive position ultimately hampers the vice-grip of those claws, preventing them from hooking past his ribcage into the soft of his organs, but it's a temporary measure at best -- those talons steadily press deeper into the musculature of his arm, heedless of the way Gen buckles down to try and better endure the damage. Each little movement makes his nerves bristle with terrible heat, sweat already beading at his brow, and Gen fights back a hoarse bark of pain; he sounds just a little more his age in that moment before he finds the breath to snarl,
"-- this enough of an opening for you?!"
As always, it's anger that drives him. Anger that he'd ended up abiding by Makoto's demand. Anger at being stuck in this whole stupid situation, taking this damage for a pair of people who could drop dead for all he cares. And anger at having to be involved in this war in the first place. He'd never asked for any of this. The ground beneath him responds accordingly to that swell of rage -- this time not by bursting outward, but by swallowing up Gen's feet, providing some resistance in the face of Estinien's upward tug.
It won't be enough though, will it? He's never practiced using his magic like that, and it's hard focusing when it feels like there's a knife slowly angling its way up into his body. So it's supplemented by a furious hiss as Gen gives a wide swing of the mace in the moments before that tail comes around to tie him up further -- the heavy, jagged, metal head of the weapon aimed right at the more delicate inside of Estinien's knee.
no subject
And it's not even the the throat-clogging swirl of dust in the air, the persistent crackling of falling embers or the faint stench of blood that has him making that assessment. It's when Makoto dares to give him an order (or so he perceives it) that Gen fervently wishes he could turn back time to wash his hands of this whole affair. Eustace is one thing, but M? And it's all in service of saving that asshole? There's disdain clear in the narrowing of Gen's eyes and the wrinkle of his nose as he throws Makoto a sideways glance, a pale sliver of teeth visible with the way his lip curls in distaste. But for better or for worse, whatever shitty retort he might have considered giving never leaves his lips.
It's a blur of movement at the periphery of his vision that has him looking back to Estinien, his stance automatically lowering to something more defensive as he snatches his mace up from its slot at his belt. And that split-second where his body had reacted more quickly than his mind ends up being the only thing that spares him a punctured lung.
Estinien divebombs him almost faster than he can comprehend, and the impact alone sends him skidding back with the grit of dirt beneath his boots. But worse is the feel of those talons digging into his flesh, sliding through skin to into his body like meathooks through a carcass. The arm he'd reflexively braced in a defensive position ultimately hampers the vice-grip of those claws, preventing them from hooking past his ribcage into the soft of his organs, but it's a temporary measure at best -- those talons steadily press deeper into the musculature of his arm, heedless of the way Gen buckles down to try and better endure the damage. Each little movement makes his nerves bristle with terrible heat, sweat already beading at his brow, and Gen fights back a hoarse bark of pain; he sounds just a little more his age in that moment before he finds the breath to snarl,
"-- this enough of an opening for you?!"
As always, it's anger that drives him. Anger that he'd ended up abiding by Makoto's demand. Anger at being stuck in this whole stupid situation, taking this damage for a pair of people who could drop dead for all he cares. And anger at having to be involved in this war in the first place. He'd never asked for any of this. The ground beneath him responds accordingly to that swell of rage -- this time not by bursting outward, but by swallowing up Gen's feet, providing some resistance in the face of Estinien's upward tug.
It won't be enough though, will it? He's never practiced using his magic like that, and it's hard focusing when it feels like there's a knife slowly angling its way up into his body. So it's supplemented by a furious hiss as Gen gives a wide swing of the mace in the moments before that tail comes around to tie him up further -- the heavy, jagged, metal head of the weapon aimed right at the more delicate inside of Estinien's knee.