His gaze snaps back to make sure she's not spiked clean through. He can smell blood, though her reaction tells him the wound is shallow. Something that can be dealt with after they're out of this damn mess.
He exhales, pushing past the spikes as best he can. Could he conjure some armour? Perhaps, but with how fucked creating anything has been, he'd rather earn a few scratches. Or. A lot of scratches. It's fine. She's right at least: unintentional or no, triggering it was the safer option. One misstep would've skewered them otherwise.
He sees it, too. The walls. Narrowing as they press forward. A hiss as a barbed shaft scrapes a chunk out of his arm. It's irritating more than painful—and he can't say he wants to be leaving trails of blood around this place. For him, it's not a matter of how careful he is. He can't do shit about the width of his shoulders.
He steps slow. The problem is, nothing here is real. Things morph and change, and it means his hearing, his senses, can only predict so much.
Something that's especially clear when he edges too close to one of the narrowing walls and—without an ounce of warning—has about a hair's breadth to duck a spike that shoots out from the side. He throws a hand up on instinct, catches the tip in his palm. Fuck. He yanks his hand back with a wet squelch.
"Keep center." His eyes lift upwards. Are there ceiling spikes? He's aware one cannot perish in the Horizon, in theory, but he also doesn't want to test that while everything's...twisted.
no subject
He exhales, pushing past the spikes as best he can. Could he conjure some armour? Perhaps, but with how fucked creating anything has been, he'd rather earn a few scratches. Or. A lot of scratches. It's fine. She's right at least: unintentional or no, triggering it was the safer option. One misstep would've skewered them otherwise.
He sees it, too. The walls. Narrowing as they press forward. A hiss as a barbed shaft scrapes a chunk out of his arm. It's irritating more than painful—and he can't say he wants to be leaving trails of blood around this place. For him, it's not a matter of how careful he is. He can't do shit about the width of his shoulders.
He steps slow. The problem is, nothing here is real. Things morph and change, and it means his hearing, his senses, can only predict so much.
Something that's especially clear when he edges too close to one of the narrowing walls and—without an ounce of warning—has about a hair's breadth to duck a spike that shoots out from the side. He throws a hand up on instinct, catches the tip in his palm. Fuck. He yanks his hand back with a wet squelch.
"Keep center." His eyes lift upwards. Are there ceiling spikes? He's aware one cannot perish in the Horizon, in theory, but he also doesn't want to test that while everything's...twisted.