The revulsion of what he'd done hit him first, and he wasted precious moments throwing up, his body purging itself of everything except the one thing he wanted to be rid of. No, it'd taken like a fish to water, that colon, and when he managed to stop gagging, when the sounds of the battle hit his ears again, it was the sudden wave of wrong hitting him that made him want to puke again.
Kharveryos.
The sickness was quickly taken over by anger, anger that such a thing could even exist, nevermind that it should be here where it didn't belong. He could smell it, feel it, like the darkness was trying to sink into his skin and every ounce of him rejected it with nothing short than utter disdain and hatred for its very existence.
Okay. Yeah, he could see why paladins were called uppity sometimes.
He breathed in. His stomach wasn't settled, but he could ignore it now, could move. He grabbed the rest of the jacket, ignoring how bad he was shaking (demi-godhood didn't do much for the cold), and roughly wiped his face clean before tossing it aside. He crouched in front of Nadir, taking both of his shoulders, though the man was slumped over now. "This better work, or I swear I will find a way to res you and kill you again," he muttered. What- what was he supposed to do? He could feel it, something that seemed to stay steady inside him. He shut his eyes again, focussing on it. What was he supposed to do? What did he want done?
And then the answer was there. He called it up, a cleansing spell that washed away the taint of poison from Nadir's body, that healed the wounds and gave him back some energy in the process. Nadir breathed in, coughed, kept coughing, and Ezra gave him a shake. The spellsword looked up, and Ezra grinned, shakily.
"This thing's got armour, right?"
Rhys hadn't even hit the ground before there were hands on him, guiding him to the floor. "Distract it!" he yelled at Nadir. Rhys was bleeding like nobody's business. Crouched beside him in spirit-woven armour, Ezra slapped his face (as though that might help, way to go) before he called up a healing spell, a light that wound its way through Rhys' body, sealing up every cut, erasing every bruise. At best for a normal paladin, it would have had the same effect as a mid-level heal from a cleric. Being the Spenta had some perks from being a regular paladin.
"Get up, get up," he muttered, picking up the longsword again that he'd dropped when he'd clutched at Rhys' shoulders. "I need you, man!"
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Kharveryos.
The sickness was quickly taken over by anger, anger that such a thing could even exist, nevermind that it should be here where it didn't belong. He could smell it, feel it, like the darkness was trying to sink into his skin and every ounce of him rejected it with nothing short than utter disdain and hatred for its very existence.
Okay. Yeah, he could see why paladins were called uppity sometimes.
He breathed in. His stomach wasn't settled, but he could ignore it now, could move. He grabbed the rest of the jacket, ignoring how bad he was shaking (demi-godhood didn't do much for the cold), and roughly wiped his face clean before tossing it aside. He crouched in front of Nadir, taking both of his shoulders, though the man was slumped over now. "This better work, or I swear I will find a way to res you and kill you again," he muttered. What- what was he supposed to do? He could feel it, something that seemed to stay steady inside him. He shut his eyes again, focussing on it. What was he supposed to do? What did he want done?
And then the answer was there. He called it up, a cleansing spell that washed away the taint of poison from Nadir's body, that healed the wounds and gave him back some energy in the process. Nadir breathed in, coughed, kept coughing, and Ezra gave him a shake. The spellsword looked up, and Ezra grinned, shakily.
"This thing's got armour, right?"
Rhys hadn't even hit the ground before there were hands on him, guiding him to the floor. "Distract it!" he yelled at Nadir. Rhys was bleeding like nobody's business. Crouched beside him in spirit-woven armour, Ezra slapped his face (as though that might help, way to go) before he called up a healing spell, a light that wound its way through Rhys' body, sealing up every cut, erasing every bruise. At best for a normal paladin, it would have had the same effect as a mid-level heal from a cleric. Being the Spenta had some perks from being a regular paladin.
"Get up, get up," he muttered, picking up the longsword again that he'd dropped when he'd clutched at Rhys' shoulders. "I need you, man!"