His eyes flicker over Steve and Cricket for a moment before he returns his gaze to the patient. "You might need to stay--I've only used them in this capacity once before." And that's all he's going to say about that, considering how Grøh turned out....
Over by the supplies, Ralts squeaks again, unwilling to leave her post but distressed at what her human intends to do.
That intent becomes clear as, with a huge surge of primal magick and an oddly musical tone, the blue and red settings on the gauntlets flare brightly. But this time, instead of forming weapons of hard light, the glow swirls and then arcs. It wicks into the patient's body and coruscates around it.
And while it does that, the essences of Order and Chaos dance in the atoms around and in the injured man. The tone stretches out, becomes something almost like a song, harmony and dissonance somehow weaving into a cogent whole. The sound can be heard throughout the room, the magick felt throughout the base and its surroundings, flickering in glass in abandoned buildings, humming in the magickal (or even subconscious) senses of everyone sheltering within the ring of torches.
Someone, somewhere, might have called it the Music of the Spheres.
It rings and warbles and all the while Azwel's mind works furiously, darting amidst the numbers of creation; a digit here, a few more there, all changed to tweak reality ever so subtly, to pull water and other elements from the air and match them to blood and flesh, to restore them, to seal the wounds shut.
All this for a stranger. But if not him, then who?
Blue and red flow and flicker, and the song grows louder. Azwel, himself, is still save for small movements of his fingers as he holds his hands over his patient. A twist or a pull or a flick. His gaze is intent on something only he can see. Behind him, Ralts curls in on herself, keening softly.
Colour rapidly returns to the injured man's face and his breathing grows regular again. And the better he looks, the worse Azwel looks. Whatever this energy is, it is literally draining him--his already pale complexion goes ashen and blood glistens under his nose.
And then, as though it had simply run its course, the sound and the lights die down. Azwel leans forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed, wheezing. A couple crimson drops fall from his nose.
"He'll live...." He steps back and drops heavily into a chair. "Do not wake him. The mind is... fragile in this state."
no subject
Over by the supplies, Ralts squeaks again, unwilling to leave her post but distressed at what her human intends to do.
That intent becomes clear as, with a huge surge of primal magick and an oddly musical tone, the blue and red settings on the gauntlets flare brightly. But this time, instead of forming weapons of hard light, the glow swirls and then arcs. It wicks into the patient's body and coruscates around it.
And while it does that, the essences of Order and Chaos dance in the atoms around and in the injured man. The tone stretches out, becomes something almost like a song, harmony and dissonance somehow weaving into a cogent whole. The sound can be heard throughout the room, the magick felt throughout the base and its surroundings, flickering in glass in abandoned buildings, humming in the magickal (or even subconscious) senses of everyone sheltering within the ring of torches.
Someone, somewhere, might have called it the Music of the Spheres.
It rings and warbles and all the while Azwel's mind works furiously, darting amidst the numbers of creation; a digit here, a few more there, all changed to tweak reality ever so subtly, to pull water and other elements from the air and match them to blood and flesh, to restore them, to seal the wounds shut.
All this for a stranger. But if not him, then who?
Blue and red flow and flicker, and the song grows louder. Azwel, himself, is still save for small movements of his fingers as he holds his hands over his patient. A twist or a pull or a flick. His gaze is intent on something only he can see. Behind him, Ralts curls in on herself, keening softly.
Colour rapidly returns to the injured man's face and his breathing grows regular again. And the better he looks, the worse Azwel looks. Whatever this energy is, it is literally draining him--his already pale complexion goes ashen and blood glistens under his nose.
And then, as though it had simply run its course, the sound and the lights die down. Azwel leans forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed, wheezing. A couple crimson drops fall from his nose.
"He'll live...." He steps back and drops heavily into a chair. "Do not wake him. The mind is... fragile in this state."