[ This is probably the longest that she's ever held onto a spell. Casting magic always came at a cost, and she expects to feel like she has all the other times she's cast a spell: bone tired, weary, ready for a long nap. It would be a blatant lie for her to say that that isn't somehow a factor in her reluctance to cast magic too. But none of that comes to mind when someone is depending on her.
Hilda keeps her gaze trained on Altair and the boar. Only when Altair gets to his feet again does she let the spell dissipate. She can feel her knees go weak and the familiar creep of exhaustion in her limbs, but she forces herself to stay up and at the ready in case it isn't enough to take the boar down.
Instead she watches in some sort of twisted awe as one of Altair's blades connect with the creature's throat. She's ripped from her momentary stupor when the boar's tusk catches in Altair's hood. Panic forces her forward, unsure if it had caught his face or throat - but instead there's the sound of tearing fabric and she's left trying to process the sight in front of her. Blood flies, anguished squeals begin to fade and then - nothing.
Silence falls around them as she watches Altair walk towards her, the body of the boar dead, its blood staining the snow and his clothes. It's not the act of violence she enacted on the boar that she's shocked at though. Her eyes are blown wide staring at Altair's features that are no longer masked by a hood. Had she seen him without a hood before? No, she'd definitely remember that. Why would he keep his face covered if that's what he looked like all the time? What the fuck?
There's a beat where she doesn't speak before, rather incredulously she exclaims — ]
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Hilda keeps her gaze trained on Altair and the boar. Only when Altair gets to his feet again does she let the spell dissipate. She can feel her knees go weak and the familiar creep of exhaustion in her limbs, but she forces herself to stay up and at the ready in case it isn't enough to take the boar down.
Instead she watches in some sort of twisted awe as one of Altair's blades connect with the creature's throat. She's ripped from her momentary stupor when the boar's tusk catches in Altair's hood. Panic forces her forward, unsure if it had caught his face or throat - but instead there's the sound of tearing fabric and she's left trying to process the sight in front of her. Blood flies, anguished squeals begin to fade and then - nothing.
Silence falls around them as she watches Altair walk towards her, the body of the boar dead, its blood staining the snow and his clothes. It's not the act of violence she enacted on the boar that she's shocked at though. Her eyes are blown wide staring at Altair's features that are no longer masked by a hood. Had she seen him without a hood before? No, she'd definitely remember that. Why would he keep his face covered if that's what he looked like all the time? What the fuck?
There's a beat where she doesn't speak before, rather incredulously she exclaims — ]
Were you always this hot?