The words flow from his lips in a manner that isn't quite fluid, but he's got enough experience wrapping his tongue around archaic and dead languages for the purpose of spells and rituals, he manages to make it work. The spirit board in his hand bucks abruptly, smashing him directly in the goddamn nose hard enough that he nearly interrupts his ritual flow with a curse — but he manages to bite it back, a little newfound frustration edging into his voice as a trickle of blood trails down toward his lip.
Then comes the concussive force, and he whips around, still clutching the spirit board, to get a look at the debris and detritus that follows. His brow screws up in a clear what the hell was that, but the ritual words keep on flowin' despite his bemusement. He's a goddamn professional, okay.
He takes a knee, carefully pressing the spirit board to the ground with one flat palm. The other hand goes digging around in his pocket for the satchel of salt he'd been carrying, and with it comes the extremely delicate process of spilling out runic sigils in salt. Something begins to hum, a low and resonating sound, the kind that one can feel in the hollow of their chests, a tinnitus whine of mounting energy signalling a spiritual discontentment that gradually mounts with every new rune he marks in salt.
It's climax time, Scooby Gang. One final flash of light, one last ripple of energy — and one last desperate resurgence of wax figures, who give up on getting to Dean and instead content themselves with trying to latch hands onto any part of Shepard and Garrus they can reach —
— until, at last, they freeze in place, motionless, silent. Just wax again. Just false, fake dummies, and no hint of life behind those unsettling features.
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Then comes the concussive force, and he whips around, still clutching the spirit board, to get a look at the debris and detritus that follows. His brow screws up in a clear what the hell was that, but the ritual words keep on flowin' despite his bemusement. He's a goddamn professional, okay.
He takes a knee, carefully pressing the spirit board to the ground with one flat palm. The other hand goes digging around in his pocket for the satchel of salt he'd been carrying, and with it comes the extremely delicate process of spilling out runic sigils in salt. Something begins to hum, a low and resonating sound, the kind that one can feel in the hollow of their chests, a tinnitus whine of mounting energy signalling a spiritual discontentment that gradually mounts with every new rune he marks in salt.
It's climax time, Scooby Gang. One final flash of light, one last ripple of energy — and one last desperate resurgence of wax figures, who give up on getting to Dean and instead content themselves with trying to latch hands onto any part of Shepard and Garrus they can reach —
— until, at last, they freeze in place, motionless, silent. Just wax again. Just false, fake dummies, and no hint of life behind those unsettling features.