[likewise for wanda, had it not been for her powers—the subsuming presence of chaos magic within her—then she would definitely have suffered a worse fate for that throw. her magic glows red under the palm of her hands as she stabilizes herself, just about reaching the end of thor's alcove of a room, swathes of red a shield as the blast of blue overtakes her.
well, so much for nero's at this point, right?
the boy does not desist, following after her, and wanda's just so tired. she needs this to stop, she needs all this noise to stop.
(she knew she should have cast the runes over the farm.)
a hand reaches forward, not to cast a spell, but to unbind one—the dark magic she's using to try and take the boy's powers casting a black-tar oil onto her fingertips, all through what's left of the darkhold's corruption within her. and yet—as she tries to pull this trick agatha had very well failed to use against her, wanda finds her throat constricting.
what essence of power she's consumed—it's familiar in a distant way. its not for her to take, it's not—
mom!
her magic falters; she sets her eyes on visions of her sons, and she's losing her source of flight. wanda spirals down onto a stack of hay, startled animals loud and stomping their hooves. she's not hurt—not really—as she tries picking herself up, on her knees and scraped hands, fingers curling into the ground. her powers are dormant now; she's just wanda, and she just can't—]
no subject
well, so much for nero's at this point, right?
the boy does not desist, following after her, and wanda's just so tired. she needs this to stop, she needs all this noise to stop.
(she knew she should have cast the runes over the farm.)
a hand reaches forward, not to cast a spell, but to unbind one—the dark magic she's using to try and take the boy's powers casting a black-tar oil onto her fingertips, all through what's left of the darkhold's corruption within her. and yet—as she tries to pull this trick agatha had very well failed to use against her, wanda finds her throat constricting.
what essence of power she's consumed—it's familiar in a distant way. its not for her to take, it's not—
mom!
her magic falters; she sets her eyes on visions of her sons, and she's losing her source of flight. wanda spirals down onto a stack of hay, startled animals loud and stomping their hooves. she's not hurt—not really—as she tries picking herself up, on her knees and scraped hands, fingers curling into the ground. her powers are dormant now; she's just wanda, and she just can't—]
I can't— [gasped out] I can't breathe—