10-22-2018, 03:48 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 540px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]The impression that Lucia will be making is not one that she would of chosen, but as the pain flares up in her body and her head begins to spin — she has no choice but to accept it. Maybe if she can at least get into shelter and out of the rain before the aether sickness takes its toll, she will be able to weather it out alone. The telltale signs are there; the taste of blood in her mouth, the headache that drowns out her senses and the leaden limb that burn with each step.
The markings, layers of runes ritualistically carved by someone showing great care, begin to flicker and glow with a soft blue. Each pulse is in time with her breaths, coming laboured and strained as she struggles to find somewhere to stay — she cannot get caught out in the storm like this.
Lucia would rather avoid looking weak. But she won't die for her pride.
She starts to mutter, diverting the energy off into specks of flame extinguished by the rain that quickly form around her paws and dissipate, sparks of electricity that pulse off her skin. Minor magics meant not to be used but to discharge, trying to avoid the mass release that she knows is coming. It always does — she cannot use herself a conduit so recklessly without the buildup that makes her sick.
It is a sickness that she knows no healer will ever be able to treat nor would she ever ask them. Lucia Pallas Averill knew what she was getting herself into. The lioness will not turn back from her curiosity now, even if it drags her into the abyss that it constantly threatens to do. Her research, her meaning and purpose, her everything, it's too important to her to care about her health now. Not now.
She approaches the huts with a short growl, her eyes glowing strongly and beginning to discharge more than simple flecks, her entire body crackling with electricity or unnatural blue fire. There has to be someone that will offer her shelter like this - it's obvious that she's in pain. People have compassion. Lucia can usually bank on that, not that she'll ever return the favour.
"Interrogabo vos et ego tectumque." She barks, hearing the roughness of her voice already, like sandpaper and gravel. The words slip out in the tongue of Arcana, not the common tongue, but she's past the point of caring. Someone may recognise it.
The markings, layers of runes ritualistically carved by someone showing great care, begin to flicker and glow with a soft blue. Each pulse is in time with her breaths, coming laboured and strained as she struggles to find somewhere to stay — she cannot get caught out in the storm like this.
Lucia would rather avoid looking weak. But she won't die for her pride.
She starts to mutter, diverting the energy off into specks of flame extinguished by the rain that quickly form around her paws and dissipate, sparks of electricity that pulse off her skin. Minor magics meant not to be used but to discharge, trying to avoid the mass release that she knows is coming. It always does — she cannot use herself a conduit so recklessly without the buildup that makes her sick.
It is a sickness that she knows no healer will ever be able to treat nor would she ever ask them. Lucia Pallas Averill knew what she was getting herself into. The lioness will not turn back from her curiosity now, even if it drags her into the abyss that it constantly threatens to do. Her research, her meaning and purpose, her everything, it's too important to her to care about her health now. Not now.
She approaches the huts with a short growl, her eyes glowing strongly and beginning to discharge more than simple flecks, her entire body crackling with electricity or unnatural blue fire. There has to be someone that will offer her shelter like this - it's obvious that she's in pain. People have compassion. Lucia can usually bank on that, not that she'll ever return the favour.
"Interrogabo vos et ego tectumque." She barks, hearing the roughness of her voice already, like sandpaper and gravel. The words slip out in the tongue of Arcana, not the common tongue, but she's past the point of caring. Someone may recognise it.
but of course, anger is better than apathy isn't it?
( *+☽ ━━━━━━━━━ lucia averill / order of the cobalt soul / tags )
( *+☽ ━━━━━━━━━ lucia averill / order of the cobalt soul / tags )