[ It all seems to happen in a staggering, glitching slow motion. The rush of magic, the panic, the light. Jaskier before her, staring dumbly. Jaskier in the sand, writhing, clutching his arm, doubled over in pain. The screaming, his and hers. The mules, stamping and braying and yanking at their leads.
For a moment, Ciri is petrified with shock, wild-eyed and panting as the magic surges through her and she scrambles to find the center of gravity that will stamp it back down. She knows, distantly, that she needs to calm down. Breathe. Think. Focus.
It's impossible. Jaskier shouts her name, and everything is worse from there.
The vines slam into her with a force that heaves Ciri into the air and knocks the breath from her already straining lungs. She tries to scream, a thin and voiceless sound that wheezes from her throat, escapes alongside the frenzied coruscation of magic seeping out of her mouth and eyes and hands. Blood stains the front of her cream-white blouse, dripping from the gouges dug by dozens of vicious little thorns as one of the vines wraps around her neck and squeezes; several more bind her arms, her legs, wrap around her waist and ribs. She thrashes, and they tighten, thorns digging in and tearing through the bare skin at her wrists and forearms, pricking only slightly less painfully through the cloth that mercifully covers her thighs and calves. They hold her aloft, arms spread wide, but if the intent -- as much as there was one in the wild, reactive panic -- is to incapacitate, the result is not quite a success.
The magic reacts this time unbidden, and the glow that surrounds her flashes sickly-green like something poisonous, slides out with her blood and shines on her skin. Ciri screams again, this time aloud, shrill and painful. Fresh vines that try to lash her meet what seems to be a glimmering shield that fits her body like a second skin, thorns unable to break through even as they wind around her in an attempt to further restrain the girl's jerking, squirming struggles.
The air smells of blood and ozone. One of the shrieking beasts of burden rears and kicks, as if trying to uproot the entire tree. ]
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For a moment, Ciri is petrified with shock, wild-eyed and panting as the magic surges through her and she scrambles to find the center of gravity that will stamp it back down. She knows, distantly, that she needs to calm down. Breathe. Think. Focus.
It's impossible. Jaskier shouts her name, and everything is worse from there.
The vines slam into her with a force that heaves Ciri into the air and knocks the breath from her already straining lungs. She tries to scream, a thin and voiceless sound that wheezes from her throat, escapes alongside the frenzied coruscation of magic seeping out of her mouth and eyes and hands. Blood stains the front of her cream-white blouse, dripping from the gouges dug by dozens of vicious little thorns as one of the vines wraps around her neck and squeezes; several more bind her arms, her legs, wrap around her waist and ribs. She thrashes, and they tighten, thorns digging in and tearing through the bare skin at her wrists and forearms, pricking only slightly less painfully through the cloth that mercifully covers her thighs and calves. They hold her aloft, arms spread wide, but if the intent -- as much as there was one in the wild, reactive panic -- is to incapacitate, the result is not quite a success.
The magic reacts this time unbidden, and the glow that surrounds her flashes sickly-green like something poisonous, slides out with her blood and shines on her skin. Ciri screams again, this time aloud, shrill and painful. Fresh vines that try to lash her meet what seems to be a glimmering shield that fits her body like a second skin, thorns unable to break through even as they wind around her in an attempt to further restrain the girl's jerking, squirming struggles.
The air smells of blood and ozone. One of the shrieking beasts of burden rears and kicks, as if trying to uproot the entire tree. ]