Edgard hits the floor, pain radiating in his chest. He breathes in and it's too sharp, he's probably cracked a rib. He glances up at Marcus coming forward.
"Please," He whispers as anything louder would hurt too much. "don't kill me!"
He tries to find a reason, but he cannot land on a good one.
The next motion of Marcus's hands does not bring pain, but numbness. Not where pain is present, but from the extremities, creeping up through Edgard's body from the soles of his feet, the joints of his knees, the tips of his fingers. Magical Petrification, and it sounds like the brittle crack of stone if he flexes against it. If he glances down at his how hands, concrete grey has creeped as far as his knuckles from where he's touched the ground.
He can still move, though standing would be difficult. He can still talk.
"Alright," Marcus says, like he is agreeing to something. "Then tell me why you're in my room. The truth, aye."
He has other questions. Like who sent this man, what was he looking for, what does he want. Paranoid questions, simmering ready at the base of his skull, but: one step at a time.
Edgard's heart races and his breath is heavier which mean his pain is increased. The pins and needles prick his fingers and toes and work its way upward. He doesn't know what is happening and his eyes widen hugely. He rejects the lie he was working towards. If his life is on the line, all bets are off. Still though, speaking is difficult. Fear and pain is a bad combination.
"A bowl." He rasps. "I was looking for a bowl. That's all."
Marcus remains standing over him, hands holding the enchantment that has seized through Edgard's body. At first, his expression doesn't flicker as Edgard offers this answer. Fingers flexing, the sound of cracking rock creaking distressingly from around Edgard.
It's clear, in the silence that follows, he has no idea what to make of this answer.
"What bowl," is very flat. The truth sounds pretty stupid on this side too.
Sweat starts to gather at Edgard's brow as his heart continues to crash wildly in his chest. His eyes flick from Marcus to the door to the window looking for anything or anyone who could help him. He heaves a deep breath out and manages to speak again.
Impossibly, his own mind struggles through the constriction of latent violence to offer up a memory of: finding a mixing bowl on Satinalia. Marcus says, "I returned it to the kitchens," in such a baffled way that his voice is almost expressive, rather than the steely even-toned edge he normally adopts.
His hands relax. Immediately, that odd stiffness in Edgard's joints leak out as the spell releases him, that grey tinge to fingertips simply vanishing as though it were never there.
Anger roils, still. There is still an offense to answer for. But not one deserving of death. Marcus isn't sure what answer there ought to be, but he takes a few steps back to give Edgard space to stand, still with the keyed in tension of a cornered wolf, standing between Edgard and the door. Still with that trace of smoke in the air.
Edgard wants to leap to his feet and run the second he's released, but his body won't allow this. He creaks slowly to all fours, still breathing heavily and rises up to his feet, arms out to keep his balance.
Once standing he clutches his chest and tries to take a few breaths, but they're too sharp.
"If you returned it, why are they still looking for it?"
It comes out a little frustrated rather than accusatory.
It is not snapped or snarled, nor is this a prelude to some kind of threatening qualifier. No instruction to tell no one what just happened, nor description of what may happen if Edgard comes back.
On the flipside, no sympathy extended for the misunderstanding either, and certainly no apology.
Marcus steps aside, leaving a clear path between Edgard and the closed door.
He lurches towards the door limping as quickly as he's allowed under the circumstances, but keeps stealing a glance back at Marcus, as if that would prepare him for another attack.
As he reaches the door, he coughs out a muffled "sorry" and opens it. It takes a moment. It's a heavy door and he's injured.
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"Please," He whispers as anything louder would hurt too much. "don't kill me!"
He tries to find a reason, but he cannot land on a good one.
no subject
He can still move, though standing would be difficult. He can still talk.
"Alright," Marcus says, like he is agreeing to something. "Then tell me why you're in my room. The truth, aye."
He has other questions. Like who sent this man, what was he looking for, what does he want. Paranoid questions, simmering ready at the base of his skull, but: one step at a time.
no subject
"A bowl." He rasps. "I was looking for a bowl. That's all."
He winces. The truth sounds pretty stupid.
no subject
It's clear, in the silence that follows, he has no idea what to make of this answer.
"What bowl," is very flat. The truth sounds pretty stupid on this side too.
no subject
"Big one. Mixing bowl. Satinalia."
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His hands relax. Immediately, that odd stiffness in Edgard's joints leak out as the spell releases him, that grey tinge to fingertips simply vanishing as though it were never there.
Anger roils, still. There is still an offense to answer for. But not one deserving of death. Marcus isn't sure what answer there ought to be, but he takes a few steps back to give Edgard space to stand, still with the keyed in tension of a cornered wolf, standing between Edgard and the door. Still with that trace of smoke in the air.
no subject
Once standing he clutches his chest and tries to take a few breaths, but they're too sharp.
"If you returned it, why are they still looking for it?"
It comes out a little frustrated rather than accusatory.
no subject
It is not snapped or snarled, nor is this a prelude to some kind of threatening qualifier. No instruction to tell no one what just happened, nor description of what may happen if Edgard comes back.
On the flipside, no sympathy extended for the misunderstanding either, and certainly no apology.
Marcus steps aside, leaving a clear path between Edgard and the closed door.
no subject
He lurches towards the door limping as quickly as he's allowed under the circumstances, but keeps stealing a glance back at Marcus, as if that would prepare him for another attack.
As he reaches the door, he coughs out a muffled "sorry" and opens it. It takes a moment. It's a heavy door and he's injured.