[ All else - insult, indignity, the man whose throat is crushed between his hands - is cast into shadow as she bursts into the room, a star-point of roiling blood magic. The wound from which the spiritual ill of all around him festers. The new and worthy focus of his unparalleled, cold, single-minded fury. He would have thrown Gale down himself, had she not thrown him away first.
Instead, he and the wall fall quickly away from his hands, and he is cast between the helpless legs of the upturned table, crushed gasping against the opposite edge of the room. His delicate, golden cross spills from his button-down and spins helpless against his broad chest, glinting in the shadowy bowels of this nightwalker nest.
Brandishing it, though normally possible, would mean pulling the chain over his head. Ducking his head down from the wall, drawing his hand far enough over it to pull the chain free, holding it aloft. Godfrey's faith was a tarnished thing, but it was strong, and it could be channeled through even this smooth little cross of gold. Not so now. Mystra holds him against the wall with immense strength and negligent effort, as though cupping a firefly in her hands.
He cannot stride, but he can wiggle.
Achingly, he folds down his ring and pinkie, holding them in place with his thumb. He peels his arm from the wall. He musters that golden light into his chest.
He takes a breath, and he speaks, projects the rumble of his chest through as much of the little chamber as he can, his arm trembling all the way up; ]
In nómine [ Two fingers against the very center of his forehead, ] Pátris--
[ The more he drives himself, the easier it gets, though by gasping shreds instead of the centimeters he may have dared to hope for. Godfrey takes a breath and, teeth grit, moves his fingers down to his sternum. ]
Et Fílii, [ Right shoulder, ] et Spirítus Sancti--
no subject
[ All else - insult, indignity, the man whose throat is crushed between his hands - is cast into shadow as she bursts into the room, a star-point of roiling blood magic. The wound from which the spiritual ill of all around him festers. The new and worthy focus of his unparalleled, cold, single-minded fury. He would have thrown Gale down himself, had she not thrown him away first.
Instead, he and the wall fall quickly away from his hands, and he is cast between the helpless legs of the upturned table, crushed gasping against the opposite edge of the room. His delicate, golden cross spills from his button-down and spins helpless against his broad chest, glinting in the shadowy bowels of this nightwalker nest.
Brandishing it, though normally possible, would mean pulling the chain over his head. Ducking his head down from the wall, drawing his hand far enough over it to pull the chain free, holding it aloft. Godfrey's faith was a tarnished thing, but it was strong, and it could be channeled through even this smooth little cross of gold. Not so now. Mystra holds him against the wall with immense strength and negligent effort, as though cupping a firefly in her hands.
He cannot stride, but he can wiggle.
Achingly, he folds down his ring and pinkie, holding them in place with his thumb. He peels his arm from the wall. He musters that golden light into his chest.
He takes a breath, and he speaks, projects the rumble of his chest through as much of the little chamber as he can, his arm trembling all the way up; ]
In nómine [ Two fingers against the very center of his forehead, ] Pátris--
[ The more he drives himself, the easier it gets, though by gasping shreds instead of the centimeters he may have dared to hope for. Godfrey takes a breath and, teeth grit, moves his fingers down to his sternum. ]
Et Fílii, [ Right shoulder, ] et Spirítus Sancti--