breachbreaker.
As the abhorrent manifestation toddled towards Dorian, Isaac conjured a ball of electrical energy, all prepared to send it flying forward at any sign it’s necessary.
—But, as suspected, Dorian has it under control.
The lightning fizzles out in the Inquisitor’s hand, and he takes the time to appreciate the moment to BREATHE. Though as Dorian goes on to remind Isaac of the behaviour of their opponents, he understands that the moment won’t last long.
There’s no effort in trying to refrain from sighing. Carding his fingers through his hair, which had broken loose from it’s hair-tie some while ago, Isaac exhales hard enough to make his shoulders sag.
“That is both FLATTERING and unfortunate.” Hey, win some, lose some.
Straightening himself up, the Inquisitor arcs his back to work out some of the aches nestling between his shoulder blades. The hold on his staff was reinforced, both hands gripping tight at the length of it.
The weight of the weapon in his hands was oddly soothing—with this staff he’d accomplished a great many things. Another round of enemies was nothing worse than tiring. And with Dorian, well, Isaac’s confidence only increased.
“It wasn’t meant to flatter, but take it as you will.”
He crouches to the damp dirt, careful to keeps his knees just above the muddied earth. He studies the features of one downed assailant – the armor engraved with foreign heraldry, the masterfully crafted weapons, useless in the dead hands of one so inexperienced.
“Who are these louts? I don’t recognize this symbol – a dagger and a feather? Are they part of some cult? Certainly not one of your admirers.”
He stands, back popping, stale muscles slipping like snake coils. His gaze crests over the hilly horizon, where dying trees bend over the cliffs, exposed ribs against the pale blue of the sky. Wraiths bumble and float in the near distance, poking between hill peaks like a lyrical game of peek-a-boo.
“And why are there so many spirits here? I don’t see any mages, aside from each other. Shall we take a look?”