Despite his self-loathing, there's something about his bitterness and ire that emboldens Carlisle, steeling him in a way that gumption and determination never could. It's no replacement for true courage, but it's enough to keep him standing, defiant in the face of obvious danger. Unfortunately, that momentary recklessness vanishes with Kabal, the cut through the water and the billowing of his veil the only signs of where his companion went.
Carlisle spins on his heel, only to be met with a sword aimed right at his face. All that keeps him from stumbling backward in terror is the thought that he might be split asunder if he moves even a hair. The glow of his eyes dissipates, his frame trembling as he is gripped with a sudden, paralyzing fear: if his physical body is destroyed, who is to say what remains of his aura will not manifest into an incorporeal wraith, an aberration incapable of empathy and human rationale? Who could even deal with such a threat were that to happen? And what would be the consequences for what few friends he has made in Anchor?
He'd expressed that fear once to Qubit, but now, when faced with the edge of a blade, it rises again at the back of his throat like a suffocating, viscous bile. Kabal may be reveling in delight at his impressive display of speed, but Carlisle can barely manage a sentence, intimidation preventing him from stringing together words in a coherent way.
"I- wh— how?"
How is it that you, a muscular oaf for whom such a feat should be impossible without magic or supernatural trickery, managed to get behind me so deftly might be what he was going for, but that'll have to do.
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Carlisle spins on his heel, only to be met with a sword aimed right at his face. All that keeps him from stumbling backward in terror is the thought that he might be split asunder if he moves even a hair. The glow of his eyes dissipates, his frame trembling as he is gripped with a sudden, paralyzing fear: if his physical body is destroyed, who is to say what remains of his aura will not manifest into an incorporeal wraith, an aberration incapable of empathy and human rationale? Who could even deal with such a threat were that to happen? And what would be the consequences for what few friends he has made in Anchor?
He'd expressed that fear once to Qubit, but now, when faced with the edge of a blade, it rises again at the back of his throat like a suffocating, viscous bile. Kabal may be reveling in delight at his impressive display of speed, but Carlisle can barely manage a sentence, intimidation preventing him from stringing together words in a coherent way.
"I- wh— how?"
How is it that you, a muscular oaf for whom such a feat should be impossible without magic or supernatural trickery, managed to get behind me so deftly might be what he was going for, but that'll have to do.