Maker's breath, she cast! He had time for the thought to process, agonizing time in detail as he felt his limbs grow sluggish. If she could cast, did that mean she was still in there somewhere? Was there someone he could still save as they had managed so many years ago in the Fade? It was horrifying to have his mind racing so quickly and his body moving at what felt like a crawl. It was nothing compared to facing a long time ally and friend as an enemy.
He had seen Fiona casting in battle. He knew that anything that followed would be far, far worse. "Fiona," he said urgently, his vocal cords slowed as well. His own voice sounded wrong in his ears. "Fiona, listen to me. You have to fight this. Whatever this is, you have to fight it."
There was to be no reasoning with her. He felt the ripple of mana, almost a tangible thing in the air between them. He had to break free somehow, had to hold on through the duration of the spell to try to gain some advantage.
Something odd happened. One moment it seemed as though he was an insect pushing its way through solidifying sap. The next there was a tingle, or a tickle-- a sensation he would later struggle to define with no success--in both palms gripping the hafts of his daggers. A tingle and a sharp pull that was less physical sensation than strong mental impulse. He dove to the left, and where he had felt trapped in his own torpid body before, now he slid as fluidly as quicksilver. He let a pauldron take the impact as he rolled to regain his feet.
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He had seen Fiona casting in battle. He knew that anything that followed would be far, far worse. "Fiona," he said urgently, his vocal cords slowed as well. His own voice sounded wrong in his ears. "Fiona, listen to me. You have to fight this. Whatever this is, you have to fight it."
There was to be no reasoning with her. He felt the ripple of mana, almost a tangible thing in the air between them. He had to break free somehow, had to hold on through the duration of the spell to try to gain some advantage.
Something odd happened. One moment it seemed as though he was an insect pushing its way through solidifying sap. The next there was a tingle, or a tickle-- a sensation he would later struggle to define with no success--in both palms gripping the hafts of his daggers. A tingle and a sharp pull that was less physical sensation than strong mental impulse. He dove to the left, and where he had felt trapped in his own torpid body before, now he slid as fluidly as quicksilver. He let a pauldron take the impact as he rolled to regain his feet.