On the other hand, Wrathion is a halfway decent actor. He's had to be, especially considering his life has been at risk for its entirety. He'd suspected, and he might have even spent more time drawing Majorita out--if there hadn't been other pressing matters at hand. Like the fighting going on around them.
Part of it is Wrathion hadn't intended for her to be sent flying--he'd only wanted to ring her bell, and pulled his strike accordingly--but she does recover more quickly than he'd anticipated, which is suspicious in and of itself. But he should have expected that from someone like her. Someone who is, very likely, a Kenoma Aion.
Especially with the way she's talking.
"I'd already be farther than this if I were running," he quips, before she lobs those softball-sized magical missiles at him. Oh, this is not good. He can't afford to be struck by either of those, he knows, but Wrathion isn't certain how well his usual tricks will help him, here.
Probably not at all, were he to be honest.
He dives behind a convenient pile of crates--unlikely to give him much cover at all, but something he hopes will soak at least a bit of those spheres. They do, but...not much. Wrathion is blown back half a dozen feet by the ensuing explosion, left smoking, burnt, and bleeding. These are not sensations he finds enjoyable.
"If this 'pisses you off', girl, your life must be a miserable one. We've barely known each other a handspan of minutes!" No, Wrathion does not know when to shut up. He's trying to buy himself time, struggling to his feet and scrambling to reclaim the gaff that had been struck from his hand. He'd heard that there were fewer footsteps, but now his ears are ringing, and Wrathion can't tell exactly where those pursuers are coming from.
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Part of it is Wrathion hadn't intended for her to be sent flying--he'd only wanted to ring her bell, and pulled his strike accordingly--but she does recover more quickly than he'd anticipated, which is suspicious in and of itself. But he should have expected that from someone like her. Someone who is, very likely, a Kenoma Aion.
Especially with the way she's talking.
"I'd already be farther than this if I were running," he quips, before she lobs those softball-sized magical missiles at him. Oh, this is not good. He can't afford to be struck by either of those, he knows, but Wrathion isn't certain how well his usual tricks will help him, here.
Probably not at all, were he to be honest.
He dives behind a convenient pile of crates--unlikely to give him much cover at all, but something he hopes will soak at least a bit of those spheres. They do, but...not much. Wrathion is blown back half a dozen feet by the ensuing explosion, left smoking, burnt, and bleeding. These are not sensations he finds enjoyable.
"If this 'pisses you off', girl, your life must be a miserable one. We've barely known each other a handspan of minutes!" No, Wrathion does not know when to shut up. He's trying to buy himself time, struggling to his feet and scrambling to reclaim the gaff that had been struck from his hand. He'd heard that there were fewer footsteps, but now his ears are ringing, and Wrathion can't tell exactly where those pursuers are coming from.