[Stephenβs not sure heβll ever get used to Wanda being in his head, even if itβs for something as simple as communication. But he doesnβt have time to overthink it, his mind churning with the possibilities, a whirring kind of mental movement that sheβd no doubt be privy to.
He almost opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it immediately. Noise and temperature. Right. He thinks in return, hoping sheβll catch the words in her telepathic net: So this is our minotaur in the maze. Letβs just keep the way lit and try not to rush it.
Because heβs following suit, his cloak lifting him a few feet in the air, his hands still exerting amber magic to guide them via light. He does not know what lies crawling along these walls, but he does not need to; he can do without the mental image of the thing if it means they get out of here unscathed.
Stephen gestures at her to follow in the opposite sound of the noise. Off they go, gliding away down the narrow path, turning a hard right. They have no choice but to follow, his light illuminating their trail but casting long shadows as they move. Those smooth shadows jitter and raise over the shape of something mound-like ahead. Stephen slows, and has to bite down a noise in the back of his throat when he can make out what it is:
A mound of rotting corpses, piled high, impeding their path not so much physically, but offering up a lurid, disgusting distraction.]
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He almost opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it immediately. Noise and temperature. Right. He thinks in return, hoping sheβll catch the words in her telepathic net: So this is our minotaur in the maze. Letβs just keep the way lit and try not to rush it.
Because heβs following suit, his cloak lifting him a few feet in the air, his hands still exerting amber magic to guide them via light. He does not know what lies crawling along these walls, but he does not need to; he can do without the mental image of the thing if it means they get out of here unscathed.
Stephen gestures at her to follow in the opposite sound of the noise. Off they go, gliding away down the narrow path, turning a hard right. They have no choice but to follow, his light illuminating their trail but casting long shadows as they move. Those smooth shadows jitter and raise over the shape of something mound-like ahead. Stephen slows, and has to bite down a noise in the back of his throat when he can make out what it is:
A mound of rotting corpses, piled high, impeding their path not so much physically, but offering up a lurid, disgusting distraction.]