He's stuck. He can't shift his body, his lower limbs and wings pinned down, pressed down by the weight of the earth. Ahead of him, his enemy, bearing down on him, raising his weapon to bludgeon, to kill. The scenes blend together - in one instant, Gen is on top of him, a petrified arm raised above his head, swinging it down as Estinien is powerless to stop him. In the next, Gen approaches, veins and muscles bulging, mace swinging to crush his skull in perfect synchronicity.
He's hurting now, and he doesn't know why. His body aches, as if threatening to fall apart, eroded by forces he doesn't understand. He's dying, he thinks.
As he had before, he tries to shift his head to the side. The mace clangs across the horns that protect the side of Estinien's head, chipping off bits of keratin as it does. His neck is jarred, protected from having his skull cracked but not the force of the vibrations it sends through him, confusing his thoughts further. He feels like he's slipping all over again, off that blinding white precipice, losing control of his body and mind as panic and agony consumes him.
Unnoticed, Kaeya's shard drops from his hand.
No.
Despite the fear, the sickness, the way his mind threatens to spiral beyond return: he grasps for the mace that has struck him, wrapping his claws around its shaft and pulling with all his strength. No. No more. The increasingly turbulent emotions within him rise, tearing through his throat and out his mouth, another draconic scream of anguish and hatred ripping through everyone who stand near. As if those psychic wounds have been made manifest, it radiates outward in a storm of etheric and sonic power, striking at bodies and minds alike.
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He's stuck. He can't shift his body, his lower limbs and wings pinned down, pressed down by the weight of the earth. Ahead of him, his enemy, bearing down on him, raising his weapon to bludgeon, to kill. The scenes blend together - in one instant, Gen is on top of him, a petrified arm raised above his head, swinging it down as Estinien is powerless to stop him. In the next, Gen approaches, veins and muscles bulging, mace swinging to crush his skull in perfect synchronicity.
He's hurting now, and he doesn't know why. His body aches, as if threatening to fall apart, eroded by forces he doesn't understand. He's dying, he thinks.
As he had before, he tries to shift his head to the side. The mace clangs across the horns that protect the side of Estinien's head, chipping off bits of keratin as it does. His neck is jarred, protected from having his skull cracked but not the force of the vibrations it sends through him, confusing his thoughts further. He feels like he's slipping all over again, off that blinding white precipice, losing control of his body and mind as panic and agony consumes him.
Unnoticed, Kaeya's shard drops from his hand.
No.
Despite the fear, the sickness, the way his mind threatens to spiral beyond return: he grasps for the mace that has struck him, wrapping his claws around its shaft and pulling with all his strength. No. No more. The increasingly turbulent emotions within him rise, tearing through his throat and out his mouth, another draconic scream of anguish and hatred ripping through everyone who stand near. As if those psychic wounds have been made manifest, it radiates outward in a storm of etheric and sonic power, striking at bodies and minds alike.