Seydon of Arda
Raquor'daan
Like that, the helix of frothing pressure and warming Force power ceased. Pain ebbed out of his face and the ringing began to quiet, ears readjusting to local sound strata, the inside of his cochlear shells beginning to itch as cellular reconstruction began in earnest to repair unseen damages. Seydon briefly turned on his waist to sneeze blood against the inside of his elbow, feeling Rosa shake her head in unbidden mirth at the disgusting gesture.
Now he could smell again. Wafts of smoking metals burning rich and hot from emptying fuel ballasts, fields of fallen vessel debris roiling with rubber stinks and the effluence of cooking bodies, the salt on Rosa's cheeks as she cried. He reached and thumbed aside the slow dew drops off her chin, leaving little mud streaks. The witcher scowled, displeased with his own unkempt manner, tending to a moment's wash while seemingly oblivious to the firefights still raging at the haunches of the pinnacle and about Hythe Park's dug out perimeter. He only paused to push on her skull and duck them out of the way of errant blaster fire.
“Shhh...” Seydon finally hushed as his wife babbled, horrified by her own reaction to trauma. Rage and death, potent emotional modifiers, had been too much for her still tender empathy to cope through. She'd acted automatically: make the pain stop and make it go away. “Come on, now. We're going...”
He undid the buttoning and fasteners for his armoured jacket. The materials and attached cowl were another of Rave's specifically treated materials, terentatek hides lined with a kind of sensor cloth. They didn't wholly block offensive Force actions but it declawed their potency, muffling outside mind tricks and other insidious mind whispers. It'd be enough to quiet the ghosts haranguing Rosa Gunn. He threw the jacketing over her shoulders and tipped the hooding over her brow, guiding her with a grip round her waist and wrist. They'd leave aboard his sleeping craft, kept isolated under sensor-cloth draped against tarpaulin, on a far landing pad cleared out of surrounding detritus and dead mangrove brush.
[member="Rosa Gunn"]
Now he could smell again. Wafts of smoking metals burning rich and hot from emptying fuel ballasts, fields of fallen vessel debris roiling with rubber stinks and the effluence of cooking bodies, the salt on Rosa's cheeks as she cried. He reached and thumbed aside the slow dew drops off her chin, leaving little mud streaks. The witcher scowled, displeased with his own unkempt manner, tending to a moment's wash while seemingly oblivious to the firefights still raging at the haunches of the pinnacle and about Hythe Park's dug out perimeter. He only paused to push on her skull and duck them out of the way of errant blaster fire.
“Shhh...” Seydon finally hushed as his wife babbled, horrified by her own reaction to trauma. Rage and death, potent emotional modifiers, had been too much for her still tender empathy to cope through. She'd acted automatically: make the pain stop and make it go away. “Come on, now. We're going...”
He undid the buttoning and fasteners for his armoured jacket. The materials and attached cowl were another of Rave's specifically treated materials, terentatek hides lined with a kind of sensor cloth. They didn't wholly block offensive Force actions but it declawed their potency, muffling outside mind tricks and other insidious mind whispers. It'd be enough to quiet the ghosts haranguing Rosa Gunn. He threw the jacketing over her shoulders and tipped the hooding over her brow, guiding her with a grip round her waist and wrist. They'd leave aboard his sleeping craft, kept isolated under sensor-cloth draped against tarpaulin, on a far landing pad cleared out of surrounding detritus and dead mangrove brush.
[member="Rosa Gunn"]
