All at once, the sounds of conflict cut off all around him, and his surroundings are painted in semi-translucent gold. All Makoto can hear is the sound of his own ragged breathing, of the slow beat of his wings, of the soft plinking sound where its talons made contact with the barrier that had suddenly encompassed him. His pale eyes furiously scour the room before settling upon Ryu, setting him in a deeply baleful gaze. Given that Estinien and Gen are still locked in combat in a double-wide grave and the other prisoner is still bound, process of elimination tells him that this ignoble state of encapsulation he’s suddenly in is his doing.
Ire boils up in his stomach, burning like bile in his throat. From the outside, those soft clinking sounds resume with renewed ferocity as the demon starts to desperately break free of his prison, slashing at its resolute golden surface with the talons of his wings, his blade, his hands, anything he can manage.
Really, with his fury centered squarely on Ryu, he doesn’t pay attention to the play-by-play of what happens next until there’s a startling flash of light that lances from one end of the storehouse to the other directly beneath him, and then the barrier disappears. Makoto has it in his head for a split-second to divebomb Ryu instead and let him know exactly what he had thought about that whole thing, but his better judgment grapples his petty vindictiveness into submission. His eyes scan the scene below him. He had seemingly been freed by Eustace’s return; the erune had shot his weapon at Ryu, who had taken a moment to recover from its blast before interjecting himself between Gen, who had gotten out of the hole in the ground before half-collapsing it around Estinien, and who was now joined by… Silco, Makoto believes he remembers his name to be.
Things have gotten much more complicated, but he can’t say he’s grudging of additional help.
His attention is drawn with morbid fascination at sudden movement from Gen — he had missed the exact moment that Silco had touched him with Shimmer, but now he pays witness to its shocking effects. The other young man smacks Ryu’s bubble aside with his club like a golf ball, bearing down on Estinien with murderous intent. After the sickening crunch of steel slamming into the crest of horns adorning the dragoon’s head, the moment that Makoto’s been waiting for all this time finally comes: there’s a flicker of movement of the aura encircling Kaeya’s shard, and it’s dropped to the ground, loosed from the man’s resilient claws.
The demon doesn’t think. He folds in his wings, and he dives.
He’s actually… never done a maneuver like this before. He realizes this when he’s less than a few feet from the ground, ticking up closer to terminal velocity and suddenly unsure of how to stop from dashing himself across the ground. His wings flare out somewhat (either by instinct or luck, who’s to say), catching enough of a billow of air to keep him from doing just that. He does hit the ground rather hard, but not before he scoops up the shard in both hands, momentum causing him to tumble a few feet away with it cradled to his chest.
He doesn’t have any time to feel victory or relief. Estinien roars again, and for the first time, Makoto is right next to it to suffer the brunt of its effects. He cries out in pain as the sound presses in on both sides of his head, a mental assault like a vice closing in on either temple. At the same time he faces the overwhelming mental pressure from the roar, he becomes painfully aware of his physical exhaustion and the lacerations that encircle his body like an embrace. In the moment, it’s almost too much — but at least he has the impulse to curl in his arms towards his chest, wrapping his wings around himself to attempt to shield from the invisible attack.
Desperation to get away drives him to move next, even doing so through the lingering shock and pain. His wings part to give him vision, and one of the first things he sees between them is Silco, standing a distance away. He draws one last Doorway and teleports to his side, gasping aloud as he reappears on the ground next to him a half-second later. Enervation seeps bone-deep into his limbs, his wings feeling as heavy as lead — the angelic after-image they cast from the Innocent’s curse seeming to glow brighter, to grow more defined, as if reveling in the opportunity to scour from him what little energy he has left and give it away to those closest to him.
It’s all he can do to pull himself up to one knee, reaching a shaking hand out to Silco. He will drop Kaeya’s shard into his, if he allows himself to.
“Get him — out of here.”
His voice is a half-gasp, half-growl. His goodwill is all but expired at this point; as far as he’s concerned, he no longer owes Kaeya a debt of gratitude, having more than paid it back in pain and blood.
no subject
Ire boils up in his stomach, burning like bile in his throat. From the outside, those soft clinking sounds resume with renewed ferocity as the demon starts to desperately break free of his prison, slashing at its resolute golden surface with the talons of his wings, his blade, his hands, anything he can manage.
Really, with his fury centered squarely on Ryu, he doesn’t pay attention to the play-by-play of what happens next until there’s a startling flash of light that lances from one end of the storehouse to the other directly beneath him, and then the barrier disappears. Makoto has it in his head for a split-second to divebomb Ryu instead and let him know exactly what he had thought about that whole thing, but his better judgment grapples his petty vindictiveness into submission. His eyes scan the scene below him. He had seemingly been freed by Eustace’s return; the erune had shot his weapon at Ryu, who had taken a moment to recover from its blast before interjecting himself between Gen, who had gotten out of the hole in the ground before half-collapsing it around Estinien, and who was now joined by… Silco, Makoto believes he remembers his name to be.
Things have gotten much more complicated, but he can’t say he’s grudging of additional help.
His attention is drawn with morbid fascination at sudden movement from Gen — he had missed the exact moment that Silco had touched him with Shimmer, but now he pays witness to its shocking effects. The other young man smacks Ryu’s bubble aside with his club like a golf ball, bearing down on Estinien with murderous intent. After the sickening crunch of steel slamming into the crest of horns adorning the dragoon’s head, the moment that Makoto’s been waiting for all this time finally comes: there’s a flicker of movement of the aura encircling Kaeya’s shard, and it’s dropped to the ground, loosed from the man’s resilient claws.
The demon doesn’t think. He folds in his wings, and he dives.
He’s actually… never done a maneuver like this before. He realizes this when he’s less than a few feet from the ground, ticking up closer to terminal velocity and suddenly unsure of how to stop from dashing himself across the ground. His wings flare out somewhat (either by instinct or luck, who’s to say), catching enough of a billow of air to keep him from doing just that. He does hit the ground rather hard, but not before he scoops up the shard in both hands, momentum causing him to tumble a few feet away with it cradled to his chest.
He doesn’t have any time to feel victory or relief. Estinien roars again, and for the first time, Makoto is right next to it to suffer the brunt of its effects. He cries out in pain as the sound presses in on both sides of his head, a mental assault like a vice closing in on either temple. At the same time he faces the overwhelming mental pressure from the roar, he becomes painfully aware of his physical exhaustion and the lacerations that encircle his body like an embrace. In the moment, it’s almost too much — but at least he has the impulse to curl in his arms towards his chest, wrapping his wings around himself to attempt to shield from the invisible attack.
Desperation to get away drives him to move next, even doing so through the lingering shock and pain. His wings part to give him vision, and one of the first things he sees between them is Silco, standing a distance away. He draws one last Doorway and teleports to his side, gasping aloud as he reappears on the ground next to him a half-second later. Enervation seeps bone-deep into his limbs, his wings feeling as heavy as lead — the angelic after-image they cast from the Innocent’s curse seeming to glow brighter, to grow more defined, as if reveling in the opportunity to scour from him what little energy he has left and give it away to those closest to him.
It’s all he can do to pull himself up to one knee, reaching a shaking hand out to Silco. He will drop Kaeya’s shard into his, if he allows himself to.
“Get him — out of here.”
His voice is a half-gasp, half-growl. His goodwill is all but expired at this point; as far as he’s concerned, he no longer owes Kaeya a debt of gratitude, having more than paid it back in pain and blood.