I left a rose at the bottom of the big black sea

[darlingdatura]

The Scions wouldn't have agreed to this. Barely tolerated the presence of the Ascian, certainly didn't like or trust him speaking to Mikh'tan. Not that this ever stopped the little Keeper from seeking Emet-Selch out to talk whenever he showed his face. If he was ever bothered by the man's barbs and smart remarks, he was especially good at letting it roll off his back. Seemed earnest in trying to bridge the gap between them, to find some common ground. Held a hope that they could find some third option between the idea of one or the other. Something. Anything.

It wasn't such idealism that had him sneaking away from the Crystarium in the dead of night though. He'd kept a brave face on things, but it was impossible for him not to realize what was happening to him, long before anyone actually admitted it to him, long before he was starting to crack apart ilm by ilm under the strain of the glut of Light Aether. If any of his companions had any idea, they'd surely stop him but no one was expecting him to leave, to slip away to Amaurot.

For all he wasn't a creature of darkness, there was some semblance of relief in the malms of ocean water above blocking out the Light he knew stained the skies, all but prickled up the back of his neck. The Miqo'te managed several steps away from the aetheryte before he felt a surge that had the white creeping in at the edges of his vision, that searing cold all but carving it's way through him, sending him stumbling hard as he dropped his bag, grabbing for one of the railings to at least avoid hitting the ground. Tail frizzing as he let out a low, distressed noise of pain behind his hand, fingers quickly stained with the glow of liquid aether as the air positively crackled with the same energy making more of that awful white and gold creep over skin like a poison.

It would take him a moment to be able to go looking or call out, if Emet-Selch wasn't already aware of his presence. He held no real illusion that this wasn't exactly what the Ascian had been planning, but at the same time...

He didn't see a way to make this stop. Didn't want to be alone in what he was afraid would be the final days or even hours he had left as himself before the Light subsumed him.

He'd spent too much of his life alone.

Comments

[emet_sulk]

He could hardly ignore the overbearing presence of Light as it entered his domain. It drew the eye, prickled at his senses. A calamity struggling to remain contained by the fragile soul of the Warrior of Light. Emet-Selch emerged out of the rift from his hiding place as they fell heavily against the railing. His footsteps echoed on the cold stone like the lonely ticking of an antique clock as he drew as close as he dared to Novrandt's new would-be Lightwarden.

"It will hurt the more you continue to struggle against it, you know."

He was almost proud of the way he managed to keep his voice even even as pity swelled in his breast. He really, truly wished they had been strong enough for this.

"Just let it go."

[darlingdatura]

"S-surely it's little surprise that I would struggle so." He tried to keep his tone light, the effect ruined by the thready sort of edge to his words brought about by that self-same pain, by the strain of resisting the flood of aether that would inevitably spell his end. He was skilled enough that he recognized a point of no return here, knew that he was well past it at this point, but at the same time couldn't stop himself from holding out as long as he could.

Knowing that at the moment keeping his feet was beyond him, he used his grasp on the railing to ease himself to sit with his back against it instead, trying to pretend he wasn't shaking, like light-tainted tears weren't painting searing lines down his face as he considered the ascian as he drew as close as he dared.

"What... will be done with me?" Would he be unleashed on the others? Would he be hidden away so that the Scions couldn't find him to somehow figure out a way to stop this? Mikka wasn't sure which made him feel worse. He found himself afraid. Deeply so, not that this was a new thing, but unlike before there was no comfort to be found in the potential to help others should he forge ahead regardless. No expectations to make him feel obligated, no easing of suffering. Oh no, when he did let go as Emet was gently advising, all that would come for those around him was suffering.

[emet_sulk]

"Hmph. Yes, your kind do like to struggle on far beyond reasonable limits."

But such efforts cannot be sustained indefinitely. Sooner or later, the body - or the mind - breaks. And even if neither do, one cannot come out the other end unchanged. Like waves dashing themselves against a breaker, trying to wear it down.

"But when you transform, I shan't need to lift a finger. Not that I would want to - too much Light, even for one such as I, you know. No, your own instincts will guide you as you hunt for aether, and I shall watch from afar to ensure you bring this shard back to ruin."

His expression hardens. "If that means killing the Scions so that they cannot muster an army against you, then so be it."

[darlingdatura]

"Ah. Yes that... makes sense." Mikka managed after a moment. The idea made him positively miserable, easy enough to see in the pin of ears against his hair as he tilted his head back to rest against the cool stone of the railing as he tried to ignore the creep of cold white starting at the edges of his vision. "Like as not I came here just in time... I don't seem to be able to even so much as summon Zaika to curl in my lap, let alone travelling by aetheryte."

He doubted it would change anything but maybe his starting so far from civilization would give them enough warning to muster some manner of defense. A weak, sad little smile crossing his face, though other than that and the uneasy flick of his tail he didn't move much. Conserving his energy, holding out as long as he was able for all he knew it was only a matter of time, soul aching under the strain of so much Light. "Like as not you'll think me childish for this, and perhaps I am but... I find I cannot bear the idea of being alone. Would you stay? Just... talk to me. About..."

He cast about for a subject, a thing that was made difficult by another loud crack not unlike spun glass breaking apart, body tensing as a fresh wash of agony flooded his voice, making his words a pained rasp. "T-the sky- what was the sky like in the real Amaurot?"

1/2

[emet_sulk]

Despite his impeccable self-control, Emet-Selch flinches. Not because of their piteous words but because every crack, every flicker of Light spilling past their lips or from their eyes could signal the final collapse of their soul. Faced with such immense Light, even he must be wary.

He ought to leave. That would be the sensible course of action, but...

"Oh, very well," he sighs. "I suppose 'twould be heartless to ignore a dying wish."

Stepping closer, he sinks on to the cold stone with a pointed sliver of distance between himself and the Warrior of Light. But then he reaches up to touch their cheek, carefully avoiding the pale, ceramic streaks running down their skin.

"Close your eyes."

These broken things never had understood the true power and capabilities of the Echo. The power to transcend limits, the power to sympathise, but also more simply: the power to share.

A headache is probably the least of their worries when the Light is eating away at them inside. Emet-Selch touches their foreheads together and imparts one of his oldest, fondest memories of a time long past...

2/2

[emet_sulk]

A night like any other. The walkway gently curves its way down to the shore, following the bend of the land their city is built along. Emet-Selch strolls without hurry, eyes searching out the one who had called him there.

They are easy to spot. They are the only one who would have the boldness to stand out by the sea with their robes hitched up and the waves lapping at their feet.

"Hythlodaeus sends his apologies. A sudden urgent matter forces him to remain at the Bureau," he says tersely once he draws within range. Urgent, his foot - it's obvious what Hythlodaeus is playing at by calling out so suddenly.

Their laughter sends an odd flutter through his heart. They point up towards the stars.

"Look, aren't they beautiful?"

His gaze follows their hand, lingers on the glittering canvas above. "They look the same night after night," he says dourly. "Tonight is no different." But does he mean the stars or the light of so many brilliant souls dancing amongst them?

They huff. He drags his gaze back down and watches them spin to face him. Their mouth moves but he doesn't quite register the words, and he swallows back those hovering upon his own tongue, heart hammering in his chest.

Your star will always shine brightest in my eyes.

[darlingdatura]

As a general rule, Mikka did his best to try and avoid clinging to others. Knew that such things were seen as pushy, or unpleasant, made him seem needy. So he kept his need for contact with others under wraps as well as he could. But in the face of touch like that it always seemed to seep through even in the best of circumstances. Here and now, coming apart ilm by ilm with each agonizing moment, there was no way he could stop himself from the faint sway into the gloved hand against his cheek, even if he knew the delicacy of it was likely more out of caution from the Light bleeding out of him than any affection. It still soothed that loneliness that nestled in the core of him, the thorned knot easing ever so slightly as he did as instructed, eyes sliding shut.

He figured Emet-Selch told him to do so as a way to make it easier to picture what he would describe. At least until he sensed the man leaning in, the touch of their foreheads together before that familiar pain flared up behind his eyes, though compared to the Light currently tearing through him it was by and far the least of the pain he was enduring-

It was indeed beautiful, the sight of the skies above that twisting cityscape, no matter the stubborn way Emet-Selch clings to that dour mask almost like a cloak. But there was a bittersweet tinge to the memory with those words unsaid, the Miqo'te feeling his heart jackhammering just as hard as Emet's had been, even as the memory seemed to come to a close, unravelling around them as the Echo faded to the background once more.

"S-she was right you know-" Mikka managed after a moment in a low whisper. "They were beautiful..."

He felt the hitch of his chest before the coughing started, flinching back, tossing his head to the side as if to shield the Ascian should the fit have him spitting up even more liquid aether, not entirely aware of the white haze starting to wreathe him like a fog.

"I am sorry-" He rasped, the words taking effort, the sad, apologetic smile curving Light-stained lips thin and pained. "I wish I c-could have been what you were hoping. T-that we could have been friends-"

[emet_sulk]

He snatches his hand back and leans away, bristling instinctively as the Light begins to shine even through their very pores. Ironically, it's like sitting near a newborn sun. He feels it burning him, like solar flares rippling across the Warrior's skin, and feels the Darkness he is steeped in rebel.

Sickening regret, bitterness, anger, all surge to the fore as he grips their shoulder. It hurts but he ignores the painful tingling in his palm.

"Then why didn't you?" he hisses. "I offered you the chance. With your strength, there was much and more we could have accomplished. One more shard and your soul would have grown that much fuller. We could have found another way."

[darlingdatura]

The Light is burning through him at this point, searing through his veins so intensely that it feels almost like the most agonizing of cold, and when aware of the loss of Emet's touch he's not entirely surprised given how dangerous such a thing was to him. But the feel of the hand clamping on his shoulder instead did startle him, enough that his gaze lifted to meet his, the usual bicolor blue of his eyes marred by harsh gold.

"Foolish naiveite I suppose," He rasped, the words painful to grind out at this point, the little Miqo'te trembling under the hand on his shoulder with the effort. "For all my optimism i-it seems I'm destined to be a disappointment once again-"

If he had anything to add it was lost as there was another louder sound, a sickening snapping that just had that haze of aether flashing brighter as the little Warrior doubled over with a raw cry of utter agony, arms tight around himself as if in a last blind bid to try and keep himself together.

[emet_sulk]

This time Emet-Selch scrambles to his feet backing away and shielding his eyes from the growing Light. He can't do anything for them. Anything he could try would simply cause them more pain, and the Oracle is not here to suppress their Light now. Not that she would be able to any more.

He watches the vicious fluctuations of aether wrack their body. What form would they take, he wonders, as the hollow in his chest yawns wider. To see that almost beautiful, distinctive blue give way to cold porcelain...

He balls his fists and clenches his teeth. "Lest you worry about disturbing the shades with your screaming," he says tightly, "worry not. They care for naught. Let it go and it will be over all the sooner."

[darlingdatura]

What about you?

Not that Mikka could give voice to the question anymore, and it was debatable if Emet could even see past that blinding Light to see it in his gaze. He didn't have the time to worry about that, or to try and force the words out as the little Miqo'te seemed to reach the tipping point, a shriek erupting from him as he tensed, body curling in on itself as if to defend against the pain of the Light tearing through his soul for all there was no external source.

It was a horrible sort of momentum that built from that- without the Warrior able to fight the corruption anymore the transformation was brutal in it's suddenness, the sounds of it a horrible cacophony under the ring of Light, all the more dissonant for the way it echoed off the cool pale stone of the plaza, for the twilight surroundings of the underwater monument to a long-destroyed place.

Hard to say if it was better or worse, to recognize him still. Too many arms surely for his small frame, but the gold brambles that seemed to be growing from the deep hollow in his chest wound around and up each arm, lashing around his wrists to end in wide gold blooms against the palms. Almost pretty, if not for the porcelain eyes in the heart of each flower, to say nothing of the unblinking blossoms otherwise decorating the thorny vines that wrapped the Lightwarden's limbs, trailed up his throat, an unadorned end curling against the edge of the blank half mask that hid where his eyes would be, the trails of gold from underneath the only hint that they might still be there at all.

The creature's movements were jerky and unnatural, and if Emet were watching for it he might notice the shift of brambles that heralded each movement, tensing and moving against limbs in a way that was almost directing the movement, down to even the tensing of the curl against the side of the Lightwarden's face directing it's unseen gaze even as the blossom eyes turned as well towards the Ascian as if assessing him. Positively glut with aether but... the Darkness was repellant, and they recoiled with a baring of fangs, ears flicking to a wary half-mast as they edged back, gold dripping onto grey stone where the bramble's thorns dug into 'skin' in the Warrior-turned-Lightwarden's movements, a faint wisp of aether curling from the fallen drops, each sprouting into a gold and porcelain flower not unlike the night-blooming sorts that the little Miqo'te had so adored.

They were hungry. Starving in fact, but clearly would find no meal here. No, better to go elsewhere, leaving naught in their wake but the forgotten satchel, and that trail of gold and flowers to mark they'd ever been there.

[emet_sulk]

For a long while he only has eyes for their monstrous form. Funny how there is still somehow beauty in the horror before him. Though he has never really given thought to how any of the First's Lightwardens manifest themselves, he finds his gaze drawn to the former Warrior of Light's figure.

Thorny bramble and golden blooms. He wonders if they mean anything. Though he tenses when they look his way, as he expects, they mark him as an unappetising meal and meander away, leaving behind a trail of gold. If he were a better person, he would feel for the Ondo about to become the creature's next banquet. But the lives of the natives don't matter any longer. The First is now condemned. His work here is finished.

He sighs and slumps, only then realising that their satchel had been left behind. He picks it up, and out of idle curiosity, takes a brief look inside.

[darlingdatura]

Some of the contents were fairly expected in an adventurer's bags. Maps, a few potions, random odds and ends picked up either to make more or to trade for other necessities. A few bits of extra clothing. The little bundles of seeds the Miqo'te had painstakingly collected. The journal wedged in between several jars of pigment and brushes almost fit too, plenty of adventurers used them to keep track of jobs or details, but this one was a bit bigger than anything like that. A bit too well-loved and Emet would likely note the small pile of notes tucked under the closing ties that were those self-same lists and details.

If Emet cared to flip through, it seemed a combination of diary and a botanist's sketchbook. Or at least at the start that's all there was. He could likely tell when Mikka had started adventuring even without reading a word from the way the subject matter of those little sketches and paintings shifted from plants alone to include details of places he'd been, people he'd met. He might be excused for thinking that some of the sketches were from after he'd come to the First- small doodles in margins of patterns and designs not used in mortal aesthetics. Plants sketched that again that while Emet might recognize no one else would.

But a glance at dates noted on those pages belied the assumption by a large margin. If he skimmed any of the writing he'd notice those sketches were often accompanied by mentions of dreams, vague in any detail but compelling to the little Keeper all the same.

The drawings grew more certain as pages went by. Figures gathered in conversation or laughter, in those familiar hoods and masks, but unlike those Emet had populated his memorial with, there were details here. Familiar smiles, some with longer or shorter hair, one smaller than the others but no less exuberant in their smile. Enough details that the Ascian would certainly be able to tell who they all were.

Her room filled near to bursting with plants as it always was, a small table set by an open window with a pair of steaming cups set on it with a view of Amaurot beyond. But unlike the one Emet had shown him, there was no murky water overhead. He might assume that there was artistic license taken in adding a night sky, but the constellations were as they should be. An uncertain note in the entry on the opposite page, that surely this was some effect of the Echo. Except that it felt more like a memory of his own than anything like that...

Emet-Selch would be able to advise him on this surely... but he was so wary of bringing it up to him yet, didn't think he would thank the Warrior for digging into old wounds if it was just the Echo. Maybe then he would ask once the final Lightwarden was slain.

[emet_sulk]

He could hardly believe he's doing this. Acting to save the very thing he had condemned? It went against everything he has been working for. His mind spun excuses for his own behaviour as he stalked the shadows, eavesdropping on key parties as they discuss the unassailable Light. The people had been quick to surrender hope after the creature had proven its inexorable strength against the combined might of Eulmore's and the Crystarium's armies. Despair had set in, as expected - as planned - and the First would soon have been ready to rejoin the Source.

The Scions had initially tried to remain in the First, but the increasingly tenuous connection betwixt body and soul forced them to confront the impossibility of doing so. Making use of the Nu Mou hermit living in the elves' old palace, he helped craft a way for the Scions to return home and then followed them there.

Emet-Selch shadowed the Scions' activities. A trickier feat than it sounded considering there were not a few Echo-blessed amongst their allies. The prevailing mood in the Rising Stones was sombre. They had lost their strongest ally, and supposedly, that meant the Eighth Umbral Calamity would strike in the near future. This only cemented Emet-Selch's theory that the Exarch somehow came from the future. But that was neither here nor there now.

But as was the mortal way, everyone picked themselves up and strove to find a means to avert calamity on the Source instead. Garlemald would need to be dealt with: either by victory in war or in parley. One of the twins however, restless for action, voiced her desire to resume trying to find a means to reverse tempering. Emet-Selch latched on to this desire desperately and began to plot.

There was little time left. He would lose Azem if the First was swallowed in calamity, and there was no guarantee that their next incarnation would remember aught about him or about themselves.

[darlingdatura]

Luckily for Emet-Selch, with as much as there was to occupy the attention and thoughts of the Scions, his presence went unnoticed as he watched over the proceedings both on the First as well as back on the Source itself. If any felt watched, they had not the time to investigate it with the potential for a Calamity looming suddenly very large.

Even if Y'shtola would occasionally frown in his vague direction as if somewhat aware of something, but unable to put her finger on what and with too much on her plate already to confirm or deny the feeling. Especially with the possibility of a cure for tempering being raised, a thing she willingly threw herself into the research of.

Information found that offered hope, and to their unseen spy, some explanations for the small oddities in the warrior-turned-lightwarden. That he remembered aught of himself, that he remembered more of what he'd been before the Sundering like as not a result of the Light burning away the divide between Persephone and Mikh'tan that had already been showing cracks before he'd succumbed to the aether. Perhaps that even was part of the reason for the oddity in behavior, some instinctual latch onto what fraction of the power Azem once had to resist the loss of self under the wash of Light, untrained and incomplete though it was. It would certainly explain the almost peaceable attitude of the Lightwarden when not consumed by it's hunger, as well as the almost aggressive behavior of the thorny brambles that restrained it's limbs that seemed to go against what the creature wanted at times. A division attempted, incomplete though it was, certainly spelled hope that all wasn't lost, especially with the theories and information the Scions were unearthing.

[emet_sulk]

He listened silently, unheard, unseen, drifting in his natural intangible form. Even for old immortals such as they, the study of souls had been a deep and near bottomless area of academic interest. Emet-Selch had never tried to understand the whys and wherefores of the Sundered. His interest ended at their greatly diminished pall. Thus, he couldn't rightly say whether any of their discussions had merit. It was a fact that the Warrior was not entirely mindless. It was a fact that they had recognised him and spoken names they should not have consciously known. He could feel the uneasiness in his breast as he wove his plans in the shadows, knowing that what he did verged on betrayal.

Elidibus, in fact, did pay him a visit once. He seemed concerned by his brethren's new obsession. He pointedly reminded Emet-Selch of their goal and then left as silently as he had come.

Mitron, he thought. Their body still lay out there, somewhere in the vast expanse of the Light-blasted plain. He could still use them. With that thought, the tightness in his breast eased.

The Scions shared what they learnt with the Exarch via their mutual fairy allies so that he might begin to form a plan to counteract the Lightwarden's influence. But Emet-Selch decided that he had seen enough. By the time the mortals found a means to stave off the passive Light sinking into their very beings, it might very well be too late. So he disappeared and took himself to the Lightwarden's current sanctuary.

"Hero?" he called quietly. "...Persephone?"

/returns late with starbucks

[darlingdatura]

It wasn't too hard to tell that the Lightwarden still made this area their main home. There were those tell-tale signs of gold and white growth, enough in some areas to almost paint the paths that the creature used most.

Like the ones around that field of flowers Emet had created, almost like a thicket fence like the Lightwarden lingered near, but was so concerned with tainting them that it was uncertain about actually wandering through. And even the sineaters who weren't restricted by those brambles presence seemed unwilling to broach that barrier either, not wanting to risk the Lightwarden's protective ire.

It shouldn't care. These flowers weren't food, and yet despite that, despite the squirm of the brambles ever-present around limbs that tried to encourage it's movement and activity otherwise, the Lightwarden always seemed to drift back here when not hunting. Trying to make sense of things for all it couldn't at the moment with the Light burning through. It did mean that Emet-Selch's presence was noticed, that familiar swirl of Dark that had the creature perking from where it had been settled, ears pricking towards the sound of his call.

"H-hades-" It rasped out in response, sounding... pleased?

Surely not. Lightwardens surely wouldn't be pleased to see someone so saturated with Dark on their doorstep. And yet...

me scrambling to remember what we had planned lmao

[emet_sulk]

He still didn't understand how this was possible but he let himself drift upwards, rising until he was eye-level with the Warden and could reach out to touch its face. As usual, he ignored the way their presence weighed on him. His adamant soul would not cave to their passive Light.

"I might have a way to reverse this," he murmured, stroking one porcelain cheek. "A way to negate all that Light raging within you. But will you struggle if I try?"

They had seemed to understand him thus far. He wondered if that extended to consenting to what he was planning.

Oh, who was he kidding? He would go ahead with it anyway whether they wanted it or not. Was that selfish of him? Yes. Did he care? No. It wasn't as though any of his people were here to judge him for it.

[darlingdatura]

It was hard to tell really, if he understood what Emet was talking about here. Even with the time he'd had, the Light had his mind in a tailspin, too many memories there to even hope to sort through, along with the utter confusion of Mikka and Persephone both being... him. But both seemed in agreement to the comfort that Emet's presence brought, a low croon slipping from him as he tilted his face to let it press into the Ascian's hand.

And tellingly enough for all the brambles seemed to bristle and twitch as always, any sineaters nearby merely eyed the pair from a safe distance, not willing to chance testing something so very steeped in Darkness without the Lightwarden goading them into action. About as close to permission as Emet-Selch was likely to get, and likely as close as Mikka would be able to give in his current state.

[emet_sulk]

He decided to take that as acquiescence. He doubted the Warrior-turned-Warden would be able to give him more. Glancing about, he made a horizontal cutting motion with his arm and a shadowy barrier immediately sprung up to enclose the two of them. Any lesser Eater would (hopefully) be repulsed by it. He had no doubt they would try to interfere once their Lightwarden began crying in pain.

Turning his attention back to Mikka, he took their face one last time and kissed what passed for a forehead. Then he closed his eyes and focused.

First, isolate the mind from the soul. With his ability, that was easy. Sorting through the blinding glow of Light to find it, however, less so. He could feel the natural dissonance between their aspects threatening to rend him apart as he grasped the faint tinge of colour hovering disparate from all the rest. But once he had it, he began funnelling aether into a greater yet more intricate version of the magic that the Scions had created on the Source.

It would hurt. He knew he might well lose the physical body he currently had in the Lightwarden's retaliation. But he had to try.

[darlingdatura]

It was honestly doubtful how much of what Emet was planning he understood just yet. He clearly could speak in at least some fashion, understand spoken words, but there was a difference between that and the sort of concept that was the current subject. It spoke to the vague sort of acceptance or trust that the creature had that the dark barrier didn't have the Lightwarden lashing out, for all the shining brambles around it's limbs tensed, the creature almost absent in the automatic resistance of that attempted pull away.

The initial contact was a strange thing, but the sensation when the man began his work was not, the cold-fire burn of icy Dark earning a pained almost betrayed screech as the Lightwarden all but flung themselves away from the Ascian, only stopped in their retreat by the barrier that they slammed against not entirely unlike a bird against a window, once, twice, three times before the brambles lacing it's pale limbs lashed out against the apparent source of the pain. But if the barrier was holding up against it, Emet-Selch was correct that it would repel the lesser Eaters that were doing their best to beat their way inside.

[emet_sulk]

He flinches without thinking but the barrier holds fast against the lesser Eaters. Just as their Light can burn him, so too can his Dark hurt them. It's the Lightwarden he must worry about.

The brambles lash out at him and he retreats, sending out dark blades to try and cut through the mass and dodging whatever remain. This won't do. He needs to be closer. It's difficult enough keeping their soul in sight without all this accursed Light trying to snuff him out.

Using a smaller shield of darkness to encompass him, he darts through the air towards the Warden. Having to maintain two barriers against the onslaught is taxing. If he cannot manage this before they fail, he hopes he can yet make his escape.

[darlingdatura]

There were so many of those brambles- and each cut through just had them tensing around the pale body of the Lightwarden, thorns piercing skin to drop more of that glittering blood in the sand, spawning more of the tendrils to replace those cut down almost as quickly as they were being destroyed.

What had likely been assumed to be a glimmer of reflected daylight against gold was proven otherwise with the Dark hiding the scorching Light- the glimmer ran along the length of several of the larger bramble vines, not entirely unlike being lit ablaze before they were whipped out to lash against the smaller shield Emet had created as he forced his way closer- they didn't resist allowing this, though it was more to wind more securely, the thorns of each seeming to draw longer, sharper, as if to try and burrow in through the shield.

More dangerous though the position was, it did at least bring the Ascian closer in to his goal, for all if he wasn't careful it would certainly render escape an even more uncertain game if things went wrong.

[emet_sulk]

The brambles closed in, their thorns seeking out the cracks in his focus, the weaknesses in his defence. He forced more and more dark aether into his spell, gritting his teeth as he struggled to hold mind and soul separate as he weaved. The closer they drew him in, the less the Warden's gilded limbs seemed to glitter.

More. Even more. He was one man against a creature whose monstrous strength only grew with each victory - and that was before their transformation. Did he even stand a chance...?

No, he could not allow himself to think that.

"Persephone, please," he whispered, staring into their Light-tinged soul. "Help me."

As the Lightwarden's writhing tendrils enclosed his shield, he threw all caution to the wind and dedicated his remaining energies to erasing the blight on his friend's soul. If he died for this then so be it.

With everything he loved gone there was little left worth living for.

[darlingdatura]

At first it almost seems like nothing will happen. Like the brambles will, as is their way, break through the shield of Dark to descend upon the Ascian inside, rend him to pieces.

And yet their growth stalls. Emet might find it easier to maintain his defenses as he works. It was debatable how long the Warden would remain so, but it was an opportunity all the same.

The creature shrieked as Emet's efforts were paying off. An agonized sound that close as he was, the Ascian would be able to feel, almost as if it made his very bones shiver like fine crystal about to shatter. But as soon as it had started, it seemed to cut short as if the wind was knocked from the creature. As the Light was being blasted from it's host, the crushing brambles were beginning to crack and crumble, flowers along the lengths withering in kind. After enough seemed to have died off, the pale figure formerly bound by them crumpled almost abruptly, like a puppet cut loose of it's strings, into a heap of too many shivering limbs.