I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
One moment, Remi is reaching for Ronin, dragging him in close—not in that take advantage of the scary moment to feel up the hot guy kind of way so prevalent in movie tropes (even if it’s normally a guy doing it to a girl)—but with the white-knuckled urgency of someone trying to keep a person, to anchor them when the whole world’s gone sideways. Only the moment doesn’t stretch into anything at all. It’s cut short, clean and violent, as if someone’s sliced the scene in half. There’s no drawn-out warning, no melodramatic swell of music, just a sickening lurch as Ronin’s body snaps forward, dragged like a ragdoll by something invisible and furious. One blink and he’s on his knees, shoulders wedged half-down the throat of the well, arms braced uselessly against its rim. The light catches on his face, but there’s no focus in his eyes. Just water. Blood. The dark.
"Ronin!" Remi’s voice hits the air like a bell; sharp, desperate, breaking against the damp walls. His flashlight clatters uselessly to the ground as he lunges forward, trying to wrench Ronin free, but something shoves back.
The force hits Remi square in the chest, flinging him off his feet with a grunt and slamming him flat on his back. The floor cracks beneath the impact, breath gone in one brutal burst. He gasps, chokes, and scrambles upright, but there’s no air in here anymore. Only the copper tang of blood and the scent of wet stone and rot.
He claws toward the well again, only to hit something invisible, a wall of resistance that burns cold along his skin. It crackles, cruel and unseen, and he can’t push past it. With a growl torn from his throat, Remi kicks out at the nearest bucket, sending it skidding across the concrete. Water sloshes, arcs, and spills; an erratic tide that washes up against the base of the well and flows in messy rivulets across the carved runes, and more importantly, over the blood he'd smeared onto the stones earlier.
"Ronin!" Remi’s voice hits the air like a bell; sharp, desperate, breaking against the damp walls. His flashlight clatters uselessly to the ground as he lunges forward, trying to wrench Ronin free, but something shoves back.
The force hits Remi square in the chest, flinging him off his feet with a grunt and slamming him flat on his back. The floor cracks beneath the impact, breath gone in one brutal burst. He gasps, chokes, and scrambles upright, but there’s no air in here anymore. Only the copper tang of blood and the scent of wet stone and rot.
He claws toward the well again, only to hit something invisible, a wall of resistance that burns cold along his skin. It crackles, cruel and unseen, and he can’t push past it. With a growl torn from his throat, Remi kicks out at the nearest bucket, sending it skidding across the concrete. Water sloshes, arcs, and spills; an erratic tide that washes up against the base of the well and flows in messy rivulets across the carved runes, and more importantly, over the blood he'd smeared onto the stones earlier.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
