It had been the wrong question to ask, he realised. She was in no fit state.
"Easy, easy. Fuck. Let me take this. It will keep."
This was the cold, heavy corpse she grasped. He took it from her properly, trusting her to her own two feet for a moment. It was an elf, he saw, with no surprise but a sudden great shock of grief and an anticipatory exhaustion. This was going to get worse.
The power to mould golems of darkness was court-given, and his own tendency towards literally moulding them likely a limitation he placed on himself out of habit. Nonetheless, it helped him; he had always struggled with the kind of magic which seemed to bring something out of nothing without even a display of effort. Hands full, he kicked out at the darkness, ankle hooking about something—some shadow-gristly limb—with a twitch of his boot, a great spike-limbed creature came stumbling out into existence. He handed it the corpse, and it snatched it eagerly, engulfed it and loped off. It took three long, ungraceful strides in the direction of the tower before it vanished into its native shadow.
The Brucolac didn't stay to watch it go. He was wrapping an arm tight about Paloma, glancing up to the sky. "Acca—"
The shadows behind him caught fire: shook themselves, and hardened into the shape of a horse. "Here," Accalon snapped.
"Look to your kin," the Brucolac said, "please."
And then his attention was fully on his own. While Accalon hissed and muttered in a strange old language, nudged uneasily at the injured Teague, the Brucolac prepared to pick up Paloma. "I'm going to lift you. Keep your eyes open. Don't drift too far. It's alright now, kinling. I will see this made right."
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"Easy, easy. Fuck. Let me take this. It will keep."
This was the cold, heavy corpse she grasped. He took it from her properly, trusting her to her own two feet for a moment. It was an elf, he saw, with no surprise but a sudden great shock of grief and an anticipatory exhaustion. This was going to get worse.
The power to mould golems of darkness was court-given, and his own tendency towards literally moulding them likely a limitation he placed on himself out of habit. Nonetheless, it helped him; he had always struggled with the kind of magic which seemed to bring something out of nothing without even a display of effort. Hands full, he kicked out at the darkness, ankle hooking about something—some shadow-gristly limb—with a twitch of his boot, a great spike-limbed creature came stumbling out into existence. He handed it the corpse, and it snatched it eagerly, engulfed it and loped off. It took three long, ungraceful strides in the direction of the tower before it vanished into its native shadow.
The Brucolac didn't stay to watch it go. He was wrapping an arm tight about Paloma, glancing up to the sky. "Acca—"
The shadows behind him caught fire: shook themselves, and hardened into the shape of a horse. "Here," Accalon snapped.
"Look to your kin," the Brucolac said, "please."
And then his attention was fully on his own. While Accalon hissed and muttered in a strange old language, nudged uneasily at the injured Teague, the Brucolac prepared to pick up Paloma. "I'm going to lift you. Keep your eyes open. Don't drift too far. It's alright now, kinling. I will see this made right."