[if they do—? should there even be room for questions, at this point? wanda doesn't want to use her magic because she's grown wary of it, as stephen knows. any false move, any spell that requires anything just a touch darker than surface-level spellcasting runs the risk of enveloping her in what darkness the darkhold has left behind within her.
even in the horizon—even in this space—wanda is not without being affected.
in many ways, she and stephen are alike. but it is in many other ways that they are different—which is why they constantly butt heads, unable to see eye to eye on the same matter. now is one of those times, when stephen just thinks and thinks, logically, when wanda's gut just tells her to go for it. how many more alternatives must they consider before he deems one the correct one? the one in fourteen million?
one of the crawling corpses reaches her, grabs at her boot, and all but sends a pulse of chaos to the ground. stephen may very well have choices, but wanda always feels like she's between a sword and a hard place.
always, always. well, if they won't fly, then—
tendrils of dark red magic conspire in the air around them, wanda's fingers moving in a dance of strict and cold movement, like holding onto puppeteering strings, straight bullets into the hivemind of the corpses. inky black ensnares at her fingertips, barely noticeable, for now.]
Get rid of them, then.
[her magic, like this, can buy them time, as she controls their entirety, delves into the hivemind, the urges and the unspooling miasma of unintelligible desires: feed, kill, feed and kill.]
no subject
even in the horizon—even in this space—wanda is not without being affected.
in many ways, she and stephen are alike. but it is in many other ways that they are different—which is why they constantly butt heads, unable to see eye to eye on the same matter. now is one of those times, when stephen just thinks and thinks, logically, when wanda's gut just tells her to go for it. how many more alternatives must they consider before he deems one the correct one? the one in fourteen million?
one of the crawling corpses reaches her, grabs at her boot, and all but sends a pulse of chaos to the ground. stephen may very well have choices, but wanda always feels like she's between a sword and a hard place.
always, always. well, if they won't fly, then—
tendrils of dark red magic conspire in the air around them, wanda's fingers moving in a dance of strict and cold movement, like holding onto puppeteering strings, straight bullets into the hivemind of the corpses. inky black ensnares at her fingertips, barely noticeable, for now.]
Get rid of them, then.
[her magic, like this, can buy them time, as she controls their entirety, delves into the hivemind, the urges and the unspooling miasma of unintelligible desires: feed, kill, feed and kill.]