Carlisle is still with Pratt, but barely, having curled into a ball the second the deputy released him. Amongst the sounds of tentacles cracking animated bones, the fragments of said bones reforming into multiple, more twisted aberrations, the excruciating throbbing like a hammer pounding at his temples, and his utter desperation to shut everything out so he can regain his composure, Carlisle barely hears Pratt's voice, much less understands it. It doesn't even register that he's been dragged a short distance, his gloved palms pressed into his eyes as though they'd stifle his agony, his glasses shoved to his forehead in the process. And there's so much screaming -- who is that screaming and why won't they stop?
Oh, oh that's him. That's him screaming, or rather attempting to. What rattles through his throat is not much more than a guttural howl, one mostly lost between the calamity around them and the ink bubbling in his airway. The largest of the now numerous abominations, sensing its master is in danger, is drawn to him -- and to Pratt, the man it assumes is a threat. It barrels toward them both, its misshapen head lowered as it charges like a furious bull, its tattered flesh and malformed musculature doing little to hinder its speed.
He can't do this, Carlisle tells himself, feeling the ground shake. He can't do this right now. He's not the Blight Heir -- he has to stop. It's too much. It's too much it's too much it's too much why won't it stop he doesn't want thisstop stop stop stop STOP—
And everything does. The charging aberration comes to a sudden halt mid-stride, its entire frame crashing to the ground, skidding to a point mere steps away from Carlisle and Pratt; the smaller ones, mostly made of stretched skin and shattered bones at this point, freeze in their assault of the tentacles and the man wielding them. Though wildly unfocused, Carlisle's compulsion gives him dominance over the undead -- and it is likely to be felt by the living around him, too.
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Oh, oh that's him. That's him screaming, or rather attempting to. What rattles through his throat is not much more than a guttural howl, one mostly lost between the calamity around them and the ink bubbling in his airway. The largest of the now numerous abominations, sensing its master is in danger, is drawn to him -- and to Pratt, the man it assumes is a threat. It barrels toward them both, its misshapen head lowered as it charges like a furious bull, its tattered flesh and malformed musculature doing little to hinder its speed.
He can't do this, Carlisle tells himself, feeling the ground shake. He can't do this right now. He's not the Blight Heir -- he has to stop. It's too much. It's too much it's too much it's too much why won't it stop he doesn't want this stop stop stop stop STOP—
And everything does. The charging aberration comes to a sudden halt mid-stride, its entire frame crashing to the ground, skidding to a point mere steps away from Carlisle and Pratt; the smaller ones, mostly made of stretched skin and shattered bones at this point, freeze in their assault of the tentacles and the man wielding them. Though wildly unfocused, Carlisle's compulsion gives him dominance over the undead -- and it is likely to be felt by the living around him, too.