Last time, there had been a sliver of hope, but through the eyes of her Father’s most trusted servant there was no use in denying the truth. King Francesco Campana, was dead.
The anguished scream didn’t falter when the bolt fell from the heavens above them and through the building. The mage merely stared unmoved. The unfeeling and empty pools drilled into the flickering, dancing light that illuminated the growing fearful faces of the tavern. But they remain still, frozen by the concentrated will even as her attention became divided. Her mind pushed, will extended, in an attempt to harness the cascading energy. Adaria’s hands came forwards, willing the power into her cupped palms.
Her heart was being shredded, every piece was being cleanly sliced and cast to the wind beginning to whip up with the encroaching storm. Those outside felt this pass as a fleeting moment yet to Adaria ir felt like long agonising minutes. She fought with the bolt, grappled with the wild magic. The need to control something driving her recklessly. And then he said those magic words and everything fell away. Reason. Right and wrong. Control.
Without her maintaining that crucial guidance, her magic went awry. One bolt became many, ricocheting off stronger walls and piercing softer things, like patrons. Fires broke out, quickly spreading given the tinderbox they were in and the smoke quickly thickened. Yet people were still frozen, only released once the Princess crumpled into sobs, shifting quickly back to anger, unbridled rage. But not towards them.
“H-how.. How could you let him go… Howcouldyoulethimdie?!” The hollow pools gave way to white hot fury as they searched for the old man. Once landing on him, Adaria’s hands gestured of their own accord, calling a gale of magic to thrust him against the structure over and over again. Her voice screaming the last phrase would be the last thing Alfred would hear until her throat went hoarse and she inhaled too much smoke.
The Royale would be ruined, burned down to its foundations with nothing of its previous life remaining, but its destroyed cellar. Eventually driven from the burning ruins, Adaria’s storm would cause further fires and damage for a large section of Antiva City. Returning to a safe house of her fathers, it wouldn’t be until she went to wash her hands that the state of her registered.
Dead. But not dead. A living dead.
One who had work to do.
The anguished scream didn’t falter when the bolt fell from the heavens above them and through the building. The mage merely stared unmoved. The unfeeling and empty pools drilled into the flickering, dancing light that illuminated the growing fearful faces of the tavern. But they remain still, frozen by the concentrated will even as her attention became divided. Her mind pushed, will extended, in an attempt to harness the cascading energy. Adaria’s hands came forwards, willing the power into her cupped palms.
Her heart was being shredded, every piece was being cleanly sliced and cast to the wind beginning to whip up with the encroaching storm. Those outside felt this pass as a fleeting moment yet to Adaria ir felt like long agonising minutes. She fought with the bolt, grappled with the wild magic. The need to control something driving her recklessly. And then he said those magic words and everything fell away. Reason. Right and wrong. Control.
Without her maintaining that crucial guidance, her magic went awry. One bolt became many, ricocheting off stronger walls and piercing softer things, like patrons. Fires broke out, quickly spreading given the tinderbox they were in and the smoke quickly thickened. Yet people were still frozen, only released once the Princess crumpled into sobs, shifting quickly back to anger, unbridled rage. But not towards them.
“H-how.. How could you let him go… Howcouldyoulethimdie?!” The hollow pools gave way to white hot fury as they searched for the old man. Once landing on him, Adaria’s hands gestured of their own accord, calling a gale of magic to thrust him against the structure over and over again. Her voice screaming the last phrase would be the last thing Alfred would hear until her throat went hoarse and she inhaled too much smoke.
The Royale would be ruined, burned down to its foundations with nothing of its previous life remaining, but its destroyed cellar. Eventually driven from the burning ruins, Adaria’s storm would cause further fires and damage for a large section of Antiva City. Returning to a safe house of her fathers, it wouldn’t be until she went to wash her hands that the state of her registered.
Dead. But not dead. A living dead.
One who had work to do.
10-01-2023, 11:08 AM
