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
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!