Meinrad's eyes glanced off Laric the moment the unspoken line had been crossed.
"You will ask for forgiveness," he intoned, neutrally.
It happened faster than anyone could react, the old arcanist inscribing sigils in the air at the course of half a heartbeat. A shuffle in the air, a low moan from the rocks that amplified the weave.
The dizziness would hit like an ocean wave. There was no pain, no muffled thoughts as at the onset of a fever, but Laric's vision would swim, and Walter's arm wrapped around him before he'd realize he was no longer steady on his feet.
The blade in Laric's hand - did not detach, nor fall out from the loosening fingers. It craved, yearned for the vibrations of a heart right next, beating against Laric's shoulder. And so, as if glued to the palm, the blade rotated in the hand, directing its deadly sharp tip into the middle of Walter's chest.
Everything swam. Sounds echoed and floated, colors were too bright and lights too bright and blooming with golden haloes. Heavy retreating steps and the slamming door sounded like the storm was raging again, reverb hitting in a nauseating refrain, and then another, before settling in the mind.
The blade in Laric's hand was embedded in Walter's gloved hand, dark-blooded tip peering out the other side of the palm, lodged between the bones. The sabre's song has ceased, to the accompaniment of ragged breathing of the only man... entity, according to the ancestor of the bloodline... left in the room.
"You will ask for forgiveness," he intoned, neutrally.
It happened faster than anyone could react, the old arcanist inscribing sigils in the air at the course of half a heartbeat. A shuffle in the air, a low moan from the rocks that amplified the weave.
The dizziness would hit like an ocean wave. There was no pain, no muffled thoughts as at the onset of a fever, but Laric's vision would swim, and Walter's arm wrapped around him before he'd realize he was no longer steady on his feet.
The blade in Laric's hand - did not detach, nor fall out from the loosening fingers. It craved, yearned for the vibrations of a heart right next, beating against Laric's shoulder. And so, as if glued to the palm, the blade rotated in the hand, directing its deadly sharp tip into the middle of Walter's chest.
Everything swam. Sounds echoed and floated, colors were too bright and lights too bright and blooming with golden haloes. Heavy retreating steps and the slamming door sounded like the storm was raging again, reverb hitting in a nauseating refrain, and then another, before settling in the mind.
The blade in Laric's hand was embedded in Walter's gloved hand, dark-blooded tip peering out the other side of the palm, lodged between the bones. The sabre's song has ceased, to the accompaniment of ragged breathing of the only man... entity, according to the ancestor of the bloodline... left in the room.
