At the end of the trial, it's just Ash and Lisa Sherwood. She has him a dozen times, well within swipe of her itching claws. She never takes him. She only drives him, further and further, a little closer with every minute that he gets a little slower. A person in their right mind, maybe even a spectator, might suspect her intention. Ash may even realize it when she drives him into a far, unremarkable stretch of brush and grass: he's not being chased, he's being herded.
The sigil in the dirt looks different from usual, and no mud sprite springs out when Ash crashes over it. Instead, his foot sinks into the ground. No friction, no impact, just sinking--like through a hologram. Like through an elephant trap. Like into sleep, because as soon as Ash's head passes through the ground, his senses are cut loose.
Taste and smell come back first, holding hands with wriggling fingers as they wander between his teeth and up the back of his nose: musty, damp soil and roots; smoke from wood, weed, and herbs; blood-tang high above it all, laced with fire. The sound of crackling logs comes from behind Ash's head, shuffling feet above him, a buzzing racing up his bones from his right side.
Sight beats sensation to him only by a few seconds. He'll see Quentin before he feels the work. Sweating, pale, plainly high from whatever is wrapped in the joint he pinches with his lips, Quentin leaves red marks like lipstick on the paper when he pulls it away. The smoke is getting in his eyes, making him think for a second that he saw Ash twitch. He sits up, knees folded under him next to Ash's hip, filthy hands resting on his own knees as Quentin turns his head up to the exposed floorboards above. Deep breath. He's seeing things.
Ash is seeing this, too. He's feeling more slowly. Fever pounding inside his temple, sweat dripping down the outside, onto the caked-dirt floor. It's cold dirt under his head, warm mud under his left side and right thigh, where Quentin is sitting and working. Even with his upper arm and upper thigh tourniqueted tight, he's bled plenty. Quentin had hoped to avoid too much mess. On the one hand, the best laid plans...
On the other hand, he's never been great at planning. In this example, he planned on the teleportation spell to knock Ash out long enough for him to get this done. Or maybe he planned on it going quicker. Limbs are hard to get through, even when you're a little wacked out. One leg, one arm, and the worst part (but probably the easiest? the neck has to be easy) left. He wets his lips (tastes bad, tastes like Ash's blood) and sticks the joint back in before getting back to it.
Sensation: the hacksaw rumbles Ash's femur, into his hip, up his spine. It's almost ticklish.
@finalboy [ cw: body HORROR ]
The sigil in the dirt looks different from usual, and no mud sprite springs out when Ash crashes over it. Instead, his foot sinks into the ground. No friction, no impact, just sinking--like through a hologram. Like through an elephant trap. Like into sleep, because as soon as Ash's head passes through the ground, his senses are cut loose.
Taste and smell come back first, holding hands with wriggling fingers as they wander between his teeth and up the back of his nose: musty, damp soil and roots; smoke from wood, weed, and herbs; blood-tang high above it all, laced with fire. The sound of crackling logs comes from behind Ash's head, shuffling feet above him, a buzzing racing up his bones from his right side.
Sight beats sensation to him only by a few seconds. He'll see Quentin before he feels the work. Sweating, pale, plainly high from whatever is wrapped in the joint he pinches with his lips, Quentin leaves red marks like lipstick on the paper when he pulls it away. The smoke is getting in his eyes, making him think for a second that he saw Ash twitch. He sits up, knees folded under him next to Ash's hip, filthy hands resting on his own knees as Quentin turns his head up to the exposed floorboards above. Deep breath. He's seeing things.
Ash is seeing this, too. He's feeling more slowly. Fever pounding inside his temple, sweat dripping down the outside, onto the caked-dirt floor. It's cold dirt under his head, warm mud under his left side and right thigh, where Quentin is sitting and working. Even with his upper arm and upper thigh tourniqueted tight, he's bled plenty. Quentin had hoped to avoid too much mess. On the one hand, the best laid plans...
On the other hand, he's never been great at planning. In this example, he planned on the teleportation spell to knock Ash out long enough for him to get this done. Or maybe he planned on it going quicker. Limbs are hard to get through, even when you're a little wacked out. One leg, one arm, and the worst part (but probably the easiest? the neck has to be easy) left. He wets his lips (tastes bad, tastes like Ash's blood) and sticks the joint back in before getting back to it.
Sensation: the hacksaw rumbles Ash's femur, into his hip, up his spine. It's almost ticklish.