Carlisle has half a mind to insist Kabal wouldn't dare hurt the fellow he's trying to coerce into eroding the door, but given he's not entirely sure that it's a bluff, he decides not to risk it, turning his attention back to the wall and the door within it. He splays his hands along its surface again, closing his eyes, trying not to think too hard about how long he's taking and whether it's been five minutes and is he going to end up with a sword in his back and how will he fix his clothes when they're sliced to ribbons he needs those to hide what he is please leave his clothes alone.
He takes a peek after a minute -- still nothing. How had he done this before? It had happened automatically, terrifyingly fast -- and without his knowledge. He hadn't even felt his energy shifting, escaping him to cause the rot spreading at his feet, from his hands, everywhere he was touching. And why hadn't it affected his gloves? Or his shoes? Or any of his clothing? They weren't enchanted. Was he subconsciously protecting his clothes?
Another peek -- still nothing. Oh no. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying harder.
Protecting his clothing does sound like him, but also takes a degree of control over his necrotic energies that he's sure he can't have, not unless his time as the Blight Heir somehow strengthened his grasp over them, a muscle made stronger through use. Perhaps it was that, or it's the fact that necrotic energies and restorative ones involve the same kind of magic -- they are ultimately two sides of the same coin, someone most are not aware of even in his world. His talent and command over healing wouldn't necessarily make him good at necromancy, would it? Would it?
He feels his discomfort welling in his gut at the very thought; his fingers itch as he tries to remain focused. The wall before him discolors, flaking along the frame.
It's a sickening irony to be such a gifted healer in life, only for those same gifts to be twisted in his passing. His death turned him into the very kind of abomination he despised, a foul creature he would have slain in the name of his goddess without a moment's hesitation. His fears mattered not when it came to his sworn duty to rid the realm of the living of the undead. Would his goddess be more appalled that he'd failed in his duty to slay himself along with them, or if he tried and became something worse? Would he become a wraith if he had no body left?
He tries to remain calm despite his unraveling thoughts, but he can't figure out how long he's been standing there once he actually tries to think about it. There must be swords at his back; any moment, the swing will hit, and he may be no more -- or maybe he'll still be undead, but with a blade-sized hole through him. He tries to focus on the door again, but he's finding it almost impossible now that he's so wrapped up in his downward spiral of self-loathing and paranoia. If he opened his eyes, maybe he'd realize the door -- and a chunk of the wall around it -- is already corroded well past the point of kicking in, and that he should dial it back before he rots a hole through the floor below him.
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He takes a peek after a minute -- still nothing. How had he done this before? It had happened automatically, terrifyingly fast -- and without his knowledge. He hadn't even felt his energy shifting, escaping him to cause the rot spreading at his feet, from his hands, everywhere he was touching. And why hadn't it affected his gloves? Or his shoes? Or any of his clothing? They weren't enchanted. Was he subconsciously protecting his clothes?
Another peek -- still nothing. Oh no. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying harder.
Protecting his clothing does sound like him, but also takes a degree of control over his necrotic energies that he's sure he can't have, not unless his time as the Blight Heir somehow strengthened his grasp over them, a muscle made stronger through use. Perhaps it was that, or it's the fact that necrotic energies and restorative ones involve the same kind of magic -- they are ultimately two sides of the same coin, someone most are not aware of even in his world. His talent and command over healing wouldn't necessarily make him good at necromancy, would it? Would it?
He feels his discomfort welling in his gut at the very thought; his fingers itch as he tries to remain focused. The wall before him discolors, flaking along the frame.
It's a sickening irony to be such a gifted healer in life, only for those same gifts to be twisted in his passing. His death turned him into the very kind of abomination he despised, a foul creature he would have slain in the name of his goddess without a moment's hesitation. His fears mattered not when it came to his sworn duty to rid the realm of the living of the undead. Would his goddess be more appalled that he'd failed in his duty to slay himself along with them, or if he tried and became something worse? Would he become a wraith if he had no body left?
He tries to remain calm despite his unraveling thoughts, but he can't figure out how long he's been standing there once he actually tries to think about it. There must be swords at his back; any moment, the swing will hit, and he may be no more -- or maybe he'll still be undead, but with a blade-sized hole through him. He tries to focus on the door again, but he's finding it almost impossible now that he's so wrapped up in his downward spiral of self-loathing and paranoia. If he opened his eyes, maybe he'd realize the door -- and a chunk of the wall around it -- is already corroded well past the point of kicking in, and that he should dial it back before he rots a hole through the floor below him.