Truly unsticking himself from the gloss of ice clogging his armor would require more muscle than Mr. Dickerson has to spare. He wrenches his knife arm loose at the shoulder and simply has to deal with the rest cracking free of its own accord as he twists to follow -- struggling, delayed, but not far behind.
”Don’t kill him!” More hissing, as he passes over the dagger at the back of his belt in favor of a thick loop of twine.
This is like being partnered with a tiger.
There are candles burning in the more intact half of the tent that remains, a glimpse of the Vint mage dropping his open bag upon clocking Richard’s bloody maw. He swings his staff up from the table, sucking moisture out of the air into a crust of ice at the blade, all the breath he might’ve used to call for help held instead to focus the spell he’s on the cusp of unleashing upon them.
no subject
”Don’t kill him!” More hissing, as he passes over the dagger at the back of his belt in favor of a thick loop of twine.
This is like being partnered with a tiger.
There are candles burning in the more intact half of the tent that remains, a glimpse of the Vint mage dropping his open bag upon clocking Richard’s bloody maw. He swings his staff up from the table, sucking moisture out of the air into a crust of ice at the blade, all the breath he might’ve used to call for help held instead to focus the spell he’s on the cusp of unleashing upon them.