Emilia counts two, four — loses count, and so perhaps more.
The attack of the viperidae seems so long ago. Like another person was there to fear it entirely. She has shed the skin of such girlhood so thoroughly that she almost mourns it, or would if she'd the time.
Here and now, there's only room for her own fangs. She feels the threat to herself, to Wrath, to everything behind the walls they guard. Shifts so that her back is flattened to his, keeping eye on what he cannot.
And as he summons a wall of ice to guard their back, Emilia summons her vines: a tangled brush that bristles with needle-sharp thorns in an attempt to slow the movement of the creatures, if not leave them prone entirely.
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Emilia counts two, four — loses count, and so perhaps more.
The attack of the viperidae seems so long ago. Like another person was there to fear it entirely. She has shed the skin of such girlhood so thoroughly that she almost mourns it, or would if she'd the time.
Here and now, there's only room for her own fangs. She feels the threat to herself, to Wrath, to everything behind the walls they guard. Shifts so that her back is flattened to his, keeping eye on what he cannot.
And as he summons a wall of ice to guard their back, Emilia summons her vines: a tangled brush that bristles with needle-sharp thorns in an attempt to slow the movement of the creatures, if not leave them prone entirely.