"I like how it keeps me alive," Loxley says. "I don't love that it makes me stranger than I already am. And I hope it isn't worse than it is."
He leans, and sets aside his tankard on a small table by the bed. Then, he hovers his hands in front of him, as if grasping some invisible, spherical thing, focusing. A mote of light appears in between his palms, and then seems to explode outwards enough to almost fill that space. It's a chaotic bit of magic, a roiling, warping near-spell; flickers of lightning turn into licks of fire turn into a swirl of ice turn into a queasy twist of ill-green smoke.
His hands tremble, just for a moment, before he collapses his hands together, dismissing it. "That was a little dangerous," is semi-apology, Loxley inspecting his palms—clean, unblemished—before looking back up at her.
no subject
He leans, and sets aside his tankard on a small table by the bed. Then, he hovers his hands in front of him, as if grasping some invisible, spherical thing, focusing. A mote of light appears in between his palms, and then seems to explode outwards enough to almost fill that space. It's a chaotic bit of magic, a roiling, warping near-spell; flickers of lightning turn into licks of fire turn into a swirl of ice turn into a queasy twist of ill-green smoke.
His hands tremble, just for a moment, before he collapses his hands together, dismissing it. "That was a little dangerous," is semi-apology, Loxley inspecting his palms—clean, unblemished—before looking back up at her.