[ One final nod of consent and he waits for the moment when she touches his mind. It's not wholly unlike the sensation of having Nuala shift through his emotions albeit far, far more direct; he can bear it and has loose preparation in tow, so his tolerance for the mental acrobatics merely makes his lashes flutter a little at first.
The memory is enshrouded in darkness and frost. Blood is on the floor, the stench of death and decay gives him pause and reason enough to silently unhitch his retracted lance. A tall figure approaches with a double-band of chain wrapped around its body, scarred and self-satisfied as it speaks. Its surprise is a fascinated undercurrent as it beholds Nuada who parries its words with an introduction, refuting responsibility of the death of whatever lies in a pool of blood between them.
And then the creature approaches, ensnaring Nuada's mind like a sickness. The prince jolts into a defensive attack that inflicts a new wound across a long nose but the figure binds Nuada's weapon along with his arm and batters him into a wall, slamming him to the ground with the lance pinning cloth as easily as batting aside a baby bird. Nuada snaps the blade (which regrows) and uses it to shield the sword that sings forth and does little to harm his foe, bellowing in anger as Nuada's blade slices through cloth and skin at a shoulder. The chain, when it snatches up Nuada's neck, is infinitely worse a fate to suffer than when it touched his arm. The lance is smacked and sends shudders up through the marrow of his bone and the hallway, already dark, flickers in and out of view. Elven steel clatters to the floor as his sword falls, and his lance is stolen with the sole intent of traveling up his prone body. Nuada is flung against a wall that cracks in veins upon impact.
The moment the spear slices through flesh to pin him far more thoroughly like a live specimen is one that burns white-hot; any shadows that Nuada has tried to call to his aid vanish. His mind screams and he recalls a similar agony right through his heart as he turned to stone (Not again, not again, not again) only this time he has no sister to die alongside him, terrified, and he passes out as the recollection spirals fear into the core of a panic attack.
There is silence, an echoing wake. The sludgy recollection of yanking the spear out and dropping heavily, crumpling in a slick pool of his own blood. He is as scared as an elfling of what the Beast saw, how it knew where to hurt him to greatest effect. There is shame and fury warring for dominance, but it is his loyalty to Thranduil and all the other elves aboard that helps him find his feet, setting off down the corridor as his mind and body blister with pain.
Wincing by the end of it, he has no idea when his grip secured on the sword set at his side. Noticing, Nuada stiffly releases the hilt. ]
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The memory is enshrouded in darkness and frost. Blood is on the floor, the stench of death and decay gives him pause and reason enough to silently unhitch his retracted lance. A tall figure approaches with a double-band of chain wrapped around its body, scarred and self-satisfied as it speaks. Its surprise is a fascinated undercurrent as it beholds Nuada who parries its words with an introduction, refuting responsibility of the death of whatever lies in a pool of blood between them.
And then the creature approaches, ensnaring Nuada's mind like a sickness. The prince jolts into a defensive attack that inflicts a new wound across a long nose but the figure binds Nuada's weapon along with his arm and batters him into a wall, slamming him to the ground with the lance pinning cloth as easily as batting aside a baby bird. Nuada snaps the blade (which regrows) and uses it to shield the sword that sings forth and does little to harm his foe, bellowing in anger as Nuada's blade slices through cloth and skin at a shoulder. The chain, when it snatches up Nuada's neck, is infinitely worse a fate to suffer than when it touched his arm. The lance is smacked and sends shudders up through the marrow of his bone and the hallway, already dark, flickers in and out of view. Elven steel clatters to the floor as his sword falls, and his lance is stolen with the sole intent of traveling up his prone body. Nuada is flung against a wall that cracks in veins upon impact.
The moment the spear slices through flesh to pin him far more thoroughly like a live specimen is one that burns white-hot; any shadows that Nuada has tried to call to his aid vanish. His mind screams and he recalls a similar agony right through his heart as he turned to stone (Not again, not again, not again) only this time he has no sister to die alongside him, terrified, and he passes out as the recollection spirals fear into the core of a panic attack.
There is silence, an echoing wake. The sludgy recollection of yanking the spear out and dropping heavily, crumpling in a slick pool of his own blood. He is as scared as an elfling of what the Beast saw, how it knew where to hurt him to greatest effect. There is shame and fury warring for dominance, but it is his loyalty to Thranduil and all the other elves aboard that helps him find his feet, setting off down the corridor as his mind and body blister with pain.
Wincing by the end of it, he has no idea when his grip secured on the sword set at his side. Noticing, Nuada stiffly releases the hilt. ]