Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-26288702-20180310221203/@comment-30014014-20180425045549

Prad had witnessed all of this...the fried knight...the concussion...the words....

...and yet, his arm faltered. HIs aim, faltered.

"No..."

HIs eye, shifted away from the man he struck thrice with lightning, faltered back to the craddled man who could wake no longer...

"No, no..."

His memory rushes back to that instant. The space between the interim of the struck and the launch of his bolts. About how he almost missed. How he almost struck down the only man who ever cared for him among beasts.

"No, no, no..."

His eyes, once still in focus, ripe with power, is losing footing as it vibrates violently under the weigth of epiphany.

"No, no, no, no, no! This wasn't supposed to be! I didn't know that he'd..."

The indifference he seemed to cast, now dethroned by the stigma of guilt. His hands since long away from casting more bolts from the heavens, he rushes to Praetor's side, forgetting the state of vulnerability he had just placed his enemy with "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Prad falls from the sky as if gravity had just caught up with him, the ambient power swelling on his legs and palms still present, providing him with a boost in sprint. He runs...all the way to the downed man, a knee on the dirt soon as he is within an arm's reach.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't know that he'd...that he'd...those bolts weren't meant for you! I'm so sorry..." he repeats, a mantra of remorse as he forcefully brings his hands together, lightning swelling once more from the flesh of his palm. Lightning shaped in a different pattern. Slowly eroding away from the casual jagged edge of the natural thunder.

It turns pale purple, losing its killing edge and replaced by the food of life, a replenishment electricity. One with heavy cost, as his focus on the task at hand corrodes the wound in the sky of his making, no longer substainable. Worse still, each crackling of power lashes back at his hands, effectively biting the hands that feed them.

"I don't care! I do not care! Mend him! Mend him now!" he orders his rebellous power, forcing its path down the slumbering Praetor. The curing attempt has begun, though slow, the young man pulling every inch of will to hold his lightning tight. The power he brought was nay meant to heal and while possible, the erratic movement betrayed his inexperience with thie tide.

Should the downed knight purchase of vision, the shadow he so briefly spotted, towering over both him and the young man, gazing back, its arms behind it. It knows he can see it...