Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-30700719-20181029004213/@comment-30014014-20181110041601

The censur twirls in increased velocity under the warden's hand. It starts brimming the immediate area with ash. White in birth, gentle in purpose, the aroma quickly turns hostile to the attackers' nostrils, a scent of coarse and choking smoke about.

Under a simple gesture, Remy swings toward the caravan's overtakers, a motion seeming futile. Only, a concentrated den of smoke flees the thurible, hailed as a phantom version of himself running toward them, swinging the object non-stop. A hail of shackles bursting from the earth, drafted in silver follows beside, before and after the phantom, locked in their path. It gains momentum, jumping over the caravan and passing through them, projecting a hollow shriek and cacophony of seeping chains.

The chains, so close to the raptors, are redirected in a startling sense of sentience, wrapping and going through them. It is as quick as it is violent, the audible world assailed by the whispers and projected edicts. Ash follows soon, washing over the raptors bound by the shackles, soon revealed to be a product of the metal binds. Frozen in place, as if caught in a flash freeze...

In the meanwhile, Remy had already begun reciting a cantip as Zafiah had turned her attention to the two main raptors. Her attention springs to the nearest, crossing her blades in a initiative challenge before she fades away, found once more to the enemy's left flank, preceded by the heat. It has little time to react before her blade, already casting the swing, would meet its flesh in a fatal fashion...