This may not be their Hell, but when Wrath transvenios, the sensation's almost the same. So unlike when he does it on mortal soil. The pleasant warmth suffused in the gesture is slightly jarring when contrasted with the Motherless and their own effect. Just gathering the next breath, and the next, becomes a monumental task.

And then, all at once, the feeling abates.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as she slumps against him, not quite ready to stand on her own two feet. She nods against his chest, gasping while she gathers all the air she'd been deprived of.

"I'm all right."

She allows herself to close her eyes for a moment, to lean into him. The back of her throat feels so dry. "The paladins," she says after a moment. Deimar. "We have to find them."