[Isaac's hand lifts, and Leander is up and turning, quick as a snake—and he holds. Holds, fingers half spread, and in this state of readiness he waits for something to happen that he can detect. Anything to counteract. There is a sense of gathering that brings to memory the scent of decaying plant matter and a mouth full of blood, and in that dreadful anticipation he resolves to stop this before it starts. A sharp burst of will should do it—but before the decision can coalesce into action, it's already begun.
Leander's face changes, not in fear, but in comprehension.
It burns in strips down the back of his neck, his chest, both of his arms, warm, and it begins to run. His shirt is dark; the blood blossoms darker. He looks down to see the bright rivulet cross his palm, watches mutely as it reaches the webbing between his fingers and keeps coming, dribbles from his knuckle. Jerks his hand back, too late to keep it from staining the blanket on the bed, and shortly finds himself against the wall. A bump, and he leans there, sagging.
When he meets Isaac's gaze again, he looks dazed—his mouth is open, working in subtleties of indecision—until finally there come a few syllables of laughter. It's weak, mostly breath, but laughter all the same.]
You fucking idiot.
[Slick with red, held in a casting claw, a hand raises toward him, the heavy charge of power impossible to miss—
(Never in desperation, never in panic. This is well within his rules: he's not afraid—he's never afraid—and Isaac drew it for him.)]
no subject
Leander's face changes, not in fear, but in comprehension.
It burns in strips down the back of his neck, his chest, both of his arms, warm, and it begins to run. His shirt is dark; the blood blossoms darker. He looks down to see the bright rivulet cross his palm, watches mutely as it reaches the webbing between his fingers and keeps coming, dribbles from his knuckle. Jerks his hand back, too late to keep it from staining the blanket on the bed, and shortly finds himself against the wall. A bump, and he leans there, sagging.
When he meets Isaac's gaze again, he looks dazed—his mouth is open, working in subtleties of indecision—until finally there come a few syllables of laughter. It's weak, mostly breath, but laughter all the same.]
You fucking idiot.
[Slick with red, held in a casting claw, a hand raises toward him, the heavy charge of power impossible to miss—
(Never in desperation, never in panic. This is well within his rules: he's not afraid—he's never afraid—and Isaac drew it for him.)]