[ 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--
Edited (no godfrey you were right the first time) 2024-07-25 20:32 (UTC)
[The woman watches his efforts without so much as batting an eye; she does not appear threatened, only bemused as Godfrey struggles to fight against the force of her spell. She appears untouched by Gale's anger, as well; she walks past him without so much as acknowledging his rage, her every movement fluid and made with purpose, coming to a full stop a few feet in front of their captive. She lifts a hand and gives a twist of her wrist; the moment she does so, Godfrey can feel his own throat tightening, constricting as she limits the airflow to his lungs.]
"It's almost endearing, really, your determination to try. Don't over-exert yourself. I have great plans for you."
[Behind her, Gale grits his teeth before taking a few steps forward, uncertain of what she may pull, uncomfortable with just how close she is to Godfrey. All those years ago, this was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid.]
Mystra—
[He says her name in a warning tone, but she cuts him off before he can say more, laughing as she looks back over her shoulder.]
"You should be thanking me. I intend to let you keep him as a pet. I could have easily flayed him alive, but I thought even you deserve a little something now and then."
[Her gaze turns back to Godfrey, cold and haughty, a cruel smile turning her lips upwards.]
"Your pretty words are useless against me. Who do you think you're dealing with, my husband?"
[Gale's fingers curl into white-knuckled fists. No matter how angry she made him, neither he nor Godfrey would benefit from his lashing out without thought.]
She would not do the same to him. Godfrey sees this for what it really is. She attempts to cast aspersion over his faith. In so doing, she does the opposite; were his words truly so useless, she would not be expending energy to crush his throat just to protect her ears from them.
And here Godfrey proves another boon of mortality. Gale had no living lungs to starve; his own had long since stopped, likely atrophied black in his chest. A Cainite did not contend with lungs which hungered for air. When boots were put to neck, more often than not, they were their wearers, not beneath their treads. Such vulnerability as a true mortal human experiences is what has built the civilizations that the Cainite parasitizes, grows fat upon. They have been dead too long to remember what wonders a flash of mortal peril does for one's ability to innovate.
Godfrey's lungs begin to scream in a matter of seconds. He feels them seizing in his chest as his throat closes. His face grows hot as they bicker uselessly. Godfrey's head pitches, golden strands falling before his brilliant eyes as he watches the woman before him, pale and swanlike throat flashing in fluorescents as she turns to emasculate her husband.
He waits. He bides his time. He holds that golden light in his chest as his head pounds.
Pushes it to his extremities. Feels his fingertips aflame with it, beneath his skin.
She turns back to him and speaks, Godfrey snarling soundlessly at her.
Then, he endeavors to make her regret standing so close.
One of his hands snaps to catch her face, bursting with morning light across her lips, fingers pinching the hollows of her dead cheeks.
[The howling scream that follows slices through the air like a knife, ear-splitting; Mystra recoils and wrenches herself away from him, staggering backwards. All of that elegance of hers vanishes in a moment; she snarls, the sound more animal than anything even resembling human, and she clutches the side of her face to cover some of the marks that have been seared into her flesh, though it's nowhere near enough. The smell of burnt flesh hangs in the air, and she lets out a low hiss before collecting herself, drawing back to her full height and squaring her shoulders despite her injuries.]
"You impudent wretch. Not even going to try to control your cow, Gale? Perhaps I should silence his voice permanently—"
[She raises a hand with nails catching the gleam of the fluorescent light above, and there is no mistaking the crackle of magic that moves through the air, a promise that she will do far worse than simply sink her claws into him— but too quickly for the human eye, she is intercepted.
Gale stands between them, his back against Godfrey's chest despite the fact that the hunter had attacked him mere moments before, and he raises both hands with his wrists crossed, arcane fire bursting into being before his palm and aimed directly at Mystra, challenging her.]
You will not touch him.
[His voice is firm and unwavering, his gaze molten steel as he stares her down.
She stares at the both of them before letting out a peal of cold, mirthless laughter, tossing her head back as it builds.]
"At least now you're being honest about choosing him over me."
[ Two things about Tertiary Gwilym; he is always prepared to die, and he has no interest in submitting to the protection of the man who broke him. One in his position can live no other way.
Gale might as well not exist between them, for how Godfrey stares Mystra and her mending face down. He takes no perverse joy in the cloying stink of what he's done, and nor in the rapid erosion of her disgusting facade. He takes it all in, in stolid and stern silence, and he knows that he was right. If she didn't fear him before, she knows now that she should.
And he knows what Gale means to do; keep the peace between his prisoner and his vile wife, that hideous mockery of womanhood. He would have him slink away behind him like a coward. He would have him shut his mouth while they pantomime their pathetic imitation at matrimony.
Gale would have power over him where none exists.
Godfrey watches her, his seafoam eyes clear in the shadow the fluorescent lights draw his face in. With low, meticulous promise, he utters; ]
He cannot stop me forever.
[ Godfrey's hands curl into fists, knuckles hard against the wall, and he lifts his head. ]
Keep me here, and I will remind you why they name you Trembling Ones.
Edited (wording tweak) 2024-08-13 21:45 (UTC)
THROWS OFF MY SHROUD ONCE MORE, 2025 the year of chris' resurrection
[Gale's interjection is low, hard-edged; he does not look back at the man behind him, never letting his gaze stray, unwilling to turn a blind eye to Mystra for even the barest fraction of a second. In this moment, Godfrey could do anything he liked to her and he would hardly bat an eye; any affection he had once held for the creature before them had faded decades past, and in its place there is only resentment, reproach, anger that now wells up within him, boiling-hot rage that fuels the flame at his command.
It burns fiercely before him, but he does not unleash it— the temptation is strong, but he is not so far lost to his own anger that he does not know what risks remain. Mystra herself is but one woman, but there is an entire clan waiting to descend on them should things get out of hand.
Mystra's lip curls upwards, wearing her disdain plainly as she shifts her weight to her back foot— not retreating, not in full, but her gaze has narrowed harshly as she appraises the pair of them, lingering on their prisoner. Even free from shackles, he was still that— one hunter against an entire compound of their kind.
He could hurt her, perhaps even slay several others in his efforts to escape, but she is confident that he could only get so far should he try. Some of the Tremere were expendable, surely.]
"I'm almost curious to see how much you can manage before you're shackled once more, hunter."
[Gale clenches his jaw. The man in this room is not the Godfrey he had known, and certainly will have no appreciation for any effort he makes to see him spared, but he will not see Mystra bait Godfrey into an even more impossible situation than they have already found themselves in. Not when he had fought so hard to keep Godfrey from such a fate.]
Mystra—
[She cuts Gale off sharply, her hand dropping away to show where her flesh has begun to mend, slowly knitting itself together even as the searing marks from Godfrey's grasp remain.]
"You would truly let him kill me where I stand, wouldn't you? Perhaps I should give you exactly what you wish for— let you keep your little pet."
[It's enough to bait him into a snarl of his own; even without her stating her terms, he can imagine exactly what sort of thing she has in mind.]
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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--
no subject
"It's almost endearing, really, your determination to try. Don't over-exert yourself. I have great plans for you."
[Behind her, Gale grits his teeth before taking a few steps forward, uncertain of what she may pull, uncomfortable with just how close she is to Godfrey. All those years ago, this was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid.]
Mystra—
[He says her name in a warning tone, but she cuts him off before he can say more, laughing as she looks back over her shoulder.]
"You should be thanking me. I intend to let you keep him as a pet. I could have easily flayed him alive, but I thought even you deserve a little something now and then."
[Her gaze turns back to Godfrey, cold and haughty, a cruel smile turning her lips upwards.]
"Your pretty words are useless against me. Who do you think you're dealing with, my husband?"
[Gale's fingers curl into white-knuckled fists. No matter how angry she made him, neither he nor Godfrey would benefit from his lashing out without thought.]
no subject
She would not do the same to him. Godfrey sees this for what it really is. She attempts to cast aspersion over his faith. In so doing, she does the opposite; were his words truly so useless, she would not be expending energy to crush his throat just to protect her ears from them.
And here Godfrey proves another boon of mortality. Gale had no living lungs to starve; his own had long since stopped, likely atrophied black in his chest. A Cainite did not contend with lungs which hungered for air. When boots were put to neck, more often than not, they were their wearers, not beneath their treads. Such vulnerability as a true mortal human experiences is what has built the civilizations that the Cainite parasitizes, grows fat upon. They have been dead too long to remember what wonders a flash of mortal peril does for one's ability to innovate.
Godfrey's lungs begin to scream in a matter of seconds. He feels them seizing in his chest as his throat closes. His face grows hot as they bicker uselessly. Godfrey's head pitches, golden strands falling before his brilliant eyes as he watches the woman before him, pale and swanlike throat flashing in fluorescents as she turns to emasculate her husband.
He waits. He bides his time. He holds that golden light in his chest as his head pounds.
Pushes it to his extremities. Feels his fingertips aflame with it, beneath his skin.
She turns back to him and speaks, Godfrey snarling soundlessly at her.
Then, he endeavors to make her regret standing so close.
One of his hands snaps to catch her face, bursting with morning light across her lips, fingers pinching the hollows of her dead cheeks.
And it squeezes. ]
no subject
"You impudent wretch. Not even going to try to control your cow, Gale? Perhaps I should silence his voice permanently—"
[She raises a hand with nails catching the gleam of the fluorescent light above, and there is no mistaking the crackle of magic that moves through the air, a promise that she will do far worse than simply sink her claws into him— but too quickly for the human eye, she is intercepted.
Gale stands between them, his back against Godfrey's chest despite the fact that the hunter had attacked him mere moments before, and he raises both hands with his wrists crossed, arcane fire bursting into being before his palm and aimed directly at Mystra, challenging her.]
You will not touch him.
[His voice is firm and unwavering, his gaze molten steel as he stares her down.
She stares at the both of them before letting out a peal of cold, mirthless laughter, tossing her head back as it builds.]
"At least now you're being honest about choosing him over me."
no subject
Gale might as well not exist between them, for how Godfrey stares Mystra and her mending face down. He takes no perverse joy in the cloying stink of what he's done, and nor in the rapid erosion of her disgusting facade. He takes it all in, in stolid and stern silence, and he knows that he was right. If she didn't fear him before, she knows now that she should.
And he knows what Gale means to do; keep the peace between his prisoner and his vile wife, that hideous mockery of womanhood. He would have him slink away behind him like a coward. He would have him shut his mouth while they pantomime their pathetic imitation at matrimony.
Gale would have power over him where none exists.
Godfrey watches her, his seafoam eyes clear in the shadow the fluorescent lights draw his face in. With low, meticulous promise, he utters; ]
He cannot stop me forever.
[ Godfrey's hands curl into fists, knuckles hard against the wall, and he lifts his head. ]
Keep me here, and I will remind you why they name you Trembling Ones.
THROWS OFF MY SHROUD ONCE MORE, 2025 the year of chris' resurrection
[Gale's interjection is low, hard-edged; he does not look back at the man behind him, never letting his gaze stray, unwilling to turn a blind eye to Mystra for even the barest fraction of a second. In this moment, Godfrey could do anything he liked to her and he would hardly bat an eye; any affection he had once held for the creature before them had faded decades past, and in its place there is only resentment, reproach, anger that now wells up within him, boiling-hot rage that fuels the flame at his command.
It burns fiercely before him, but he does not unleash it— the temptation is strong, but he is not so far lost to his own anger that he does not know what risks remain. Mystra herself is but one woman, but there is an entire clan waiting to descend on them should things get out of hand.
Mystra's lip curls upwards, wearing her disdain plainly as she shifts her weight to her back foot— not retreating, not in full, but her gaze has narrowed harshly as she appraises the pair of them, lingering on their prisoner. Even free from shackles, he was still that— one hunter against an entire compound of their kind.
He could hurt her, perhaps even slay several others in his efforts to escape, but she is confident that he could only get so far should he try. Some of the Tremere were expendable, surely.]
"I'm almost curious to see how much you can manage before you're shackled once more, hunter."
[Gale clenches his jaw. The man in this room is not the Godfrey he had known, and certainly will have no appreciation for any effort he makes to see him spared, but he will not see Mystra bait Godfrey into an even more impossible situation than they have already found themselves in. Not when he had fought so hard to keep Godfrey from such a fate.]
Mystra—
[She cuts Gale off sharply, her hand dropping away to show where her flesh has begun to mend, slowly knitting itself together even as the searing marks from Godfrey's grasp remain.]
"You would truly let him kill me where I stand, wouldn't you? Perhaps I should give you exactly what you wish for— let you keep your little pet."
[It's enough to bait him into a snarl of his own; even without her stating her terms, he can imagine exactly what sort of thing she has in mind.]
You will not make him one of us!