Sing to me, I am not doing well
Getting tired of my own words
It had been a trumph card of a sort, that bit of personal magic, and apparently not a lot of people remained unphased by it as evidenced by the number of people that had succumbed all around the red-haired man. Surprise turned to outrage when Astaroth did not follow suite. Then worry set in when the tide of the fight turned, then desperation; he put up a strong fight against the Butcher but was overwhelmed by the great difference in stature between them. Down he went, clothes singed and skin burned, and what followed as his hands were cuffed behind his back was a string of curses so vehement they might have shocked even the clientele of the brothel. Getting tired of my own words
With the magician's focus broken, the spell began to wear off. Shaking her head, Maea began to stir, as did Asta's backup and the guests that had been caught up in the skirmish. More than one helping hand was offered now, to keep the troublemakers contained. Did Asta need help? What to do with these people, Thank you, Thank you, well done! – and the music that had quieted for a moment picked up again, as if nothing untoward had ever happened.
Hauling herself off the floor and into a vacated chair, Maea shivered and wiped a trickle of blood off her chin. Feeling out of sorts, she stared vacantly at the wriggling, spitting man in Asta's grip; wondering what she would have done if she hadn't been rescued. If no one had noticed, if her friend hadn't been there –
Fat load of good all the magic and shifts and hours of training had done her, if she couldn't put any of it to use when it counted.
"Thank you," she said softly. It was swallowed by the other voices, and she was unsure whether he could even hear her.
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself
through the loudness of my own hurts
through the loudness of my own hurts
base inspired by Odd <3
