[the world changes. not without aggressive pushback - there's a section of Fever that will never stop fighting, never stop challenging, that can never be quelled. it wages war against outer madness with her own, the same howling and surging hatred that keeps her moving even in critical condition. it says to yield.
but she has embraced her madness, and let it change her. lives it, breathes it. took the blood of the Prince into her veins and cracked open her mind in new ways. and so, it must scrabble for new purchase against the ever shifting landscape.
Fever blinks, and looks down, and sees herself incinerated by the god. her fate, perhaps, if she didn't take the eyes. she sees burnt flesh, feels a pulsing at a distance, black and charred and falling away. damage that isn't damaged, fingers that move slower because shouldn't they? and she grins, terrible and bright, the scent of her own burnt hair in her nostrils.]
Get her eyes!
[it's an iron whip cutting into flesh, that tone, severe and cruel and full of too much confidence to be reasoned with. she laughs, once, so genuinely amused, while her hands scream in agony.
direct it. she doesn't have her powers - the spell shaped hole aches in her chest, sickens her - but she can still command, like she's done for years.]
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[the world changes. not without aggressive pushback - there's a section of Fever that will never stop fighting, never stop challenging, that can never be quelled. it wages war against outer madness with her own, the same howling and surging hatred that keeps her moving even in critical condition. it says to yield.
but she has embraced her madness, and let it change her. lives it, breathes it. took the blood of the Prince into her veins and cracked open her mind in new ways. and so, it must scrabble for new purchase against the ever shifting landscape.
Fever blinks, and looks down, and sees herself incinerated by the god. her fate, perhaps, if she didn't take the eyes. she sees burnt flesh, feels a pulsing at a distance, black and charred and falling away. damage that isn't damaged, fingers that move slower because shouldn't they? and she grins, terrible and bright, the scent of her own burnt hair in her nostrils.]
Get her eyes!
[it's an iron whip cutting into flesh, that tone, severe and cruel and full of too much confidence to be reasoned with. she laughs, once, so genuinely amused, while her hands scream in agony.
direct it. she doesn't have her powers - the spell shaped hole aches in her chest, sickens her - but she can still command, like she's done for years.]