i fell in love with a war
Icarus almost snorts at the assumption his unit would have been helpful in their recommendations. Sure, they had certainly had suggestions, but all of them ranged form ridiculous to implausible to impossible. One old-timer had suggested Icarus try stabbing Ghilio with his sword, and if the God woke up the mission was successful, and if Icarus got smote in the process, well, the unit would always honor his sacrifice for the greater good. Mostly the suggestions had centered around getting hammered, though Icarus failed to see the utility in how doing that could wake the God. "They were about as helpful as you might expect them to be," Icarus says flatly.
The images of mighty, deadly beasts raining destruction upon the Citadel begin to abate slightly at the man's reassurances, but do not disappear entirely. It's true that this flying, smiling thing doesn't look like it'll be ripping down civilizations anytime soon, but when it flashes its teeth, Icarus still flinches back and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He tries to force the rise and fall of his chest, which had just ticked up its intensity, back into its regular rhythm. When he opens his eyes, he cannot quite tear his full gaze away from the dragon, his instincts too well-trained and well-honed to permit him entirely, but he shifts some of his awareness back to the man's struggle on the bridge.
Every new step carrying the man to each new rickety step send the bridge wiggling precariously, and the man's grip is knuckle-white on the rope. "Can I help?" Icarus calls, stepping slowly closer towards the bridge. He doesn't want to startle the man (again) and send him more unstably forward, so he moves slowly and noisily, stopping about five feet away from the start of the bridge. Wrists twisting, he conjures up a large tendril of water magic, sending it floating slowly to the underside of the bridge to push up against the planks. There, he holds the water, forcing it into a solid non-moving form, keeping the rickety bridge from swaying. "Is that better?"
The images of mighty, deadly beasts raining destruction upon the Citadel begin to abate slightly at the man's reassurances, but do not disappear entirely. It's true that this flying, smiling thing doesn't look like it'll be ripping down civilizations anytime soon, but when it flashes its teeth, Icarus still flinches back and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He tries to force the rise and fall of his chest, which had just ticked up its intensity, back into its regular rhythm. When he opens his eyes, he cannot quite tear his full gaze away from the dragon, his instincts too well-trained and well-honed to permit him entirely, but he shifts some of his awareness back to the man's struggle on the bridge.
Every new step carrying the man to each new rickety step send the bridge wiggling precariously, and the man's grip is knuckle-white on the rope. "Can I help?" Icarus calls, stepping slowly closer towards the bridge. He doesn't want to startle the man (again) and send him more unstably forward, so he moves slowly and noisily, stopping about five feet away from the start of the bridge. Wrists twisting, he conjures up a large tendril of water magic, sending it floating slowly to the underside of the bridge to push up against the planks. There, he holds the water, forcing it into a solid non-moving form, keeping the rickety bridge from swaying. "Is that better?"
Icarus
and nobody told me it ended
