[Carlisle remains affixed to the ground for several seconds, his entire body trembling, the glow of his eyes blinding as he cries out in agony; he swallows down the ink he feels bubbling in his throat, letting out a ragged, guttural groan as his legs buckle beneath him. With his energies still so out of alignment, his Revenant nature becomes too much to bear, threatening to consume what scraps of humanity he has left. Behind his mask, his teeth grind so hard he's afraid they'll crack, his back arching as his fingers dig into the fabric of his coat, his hand clutching at his middle as though his insides would fall out if given the chance. It's a feeling with which he is unfortunately familiar -- it's what happened when he was cursed. But he was damned from the start, wasn't he? He hadn't done anything wrong! He was—
He folds over, the one hand still at his middle, the other clawing at his hairline as his head throbs. He chided himself internally: Stop.
He manages to look Qubit's way, his expression imploring, but he can see from the look on his companion's face that he's made a mistake, tell from Qubit's obvious alarm that losing his temper was absolutely the wrong thing to do here, no matter what he just said about how he should just be a monster. He doesn't want to be a monster, doesn't want to hurt people, no matter how embittered he may be about his undeath. He's done so much of that already, hasn't he? What would his uncles think? Or his goddess? What would he think of himself if he turned on someone he considers a friend, possibly the only one he has now?
What if, without him, Qubit ends up stranded or perishes in this horrible place? None of his efforts in the past to prove himself worthy of existing may have meant anything, but what if this is the one thing that does?
That last question gives Carlisle purpose enough to will himself through his fit: he needs to be the calm one here, as Qubit seems to be dealing with an internal crisis of his own. He'll never find out what that crisis is if they find their ends here. So long as he can focus on that -- on helping Qubit -- rather than himself, he can keep moving, saving his self-turned disgust for later. The illumination in Carlisle's eyes dims as the pain subsides; the skeletons start jittering once more, not entirely lifeless, but no longer animating as quickly.]
M- Mister Qubit...
[His head hangs as he pushes himself to his feet, his voice grating at the back of his throat. A drop of ink hits the ground before him, escaping from his eye before he finally manages to right himself. Qubit's petrified silence is not giving him confidence: he seems to be looking beyond Carlisle, through him rather than at him. Is he under a compulsion? Dying? Are his insides withering? A thousand awful possibilities hit the clergyman's mind all at once. He forces himself to cut through the overwhelming anxiety, closing the gap between them step by step.]
Mister Qubit, I- I didn't mean it. I mean, I did mean it a little, but I was angry and ghk!
[He takes a step back reflexively as another pang runs through him, terrified his proximity will cause Qubit to crumble into dust. He bumps instead into a skeleton that has animated behind him, its small hands grabbing at his coat, begging for his attention. Another one comes to Qubit's side, pleading as it reaches for his arm.]
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He folds over, the one hand still at his middle, the other clawing at his hairline as his head throbs. He chided himself internally: Stop.
He manages to look Qubit's way, his expression imploring, but he can see from the look on his companion's face that he's made a mistake, tell from Qubit's obvious alarm that losing his temper was absolutely the wrong thing to do here, no matter what he just said about how he should just be a monster. He doesn't want to be a monster, doesn't want to hurt people, no matter how embittered he may be about his undeath. He's done so much of that already, hasn't he? What would his uncles think? Or his goddess? What would he think of himself if he turned on someone he considers a friend, possibly the only one he has now?
What if, without him, Qubit ends up stranded or perishes in this horrible place? None of his efforts in the past to prove himself worthy of existing may have meant anything, but what if this is the one thing that does?
That last question gives Carlisle purpose enough to will himself through his fit: he needs to be the calm one here, as Qubit seems to be dealing with an internal crisis of his own. He'll never find out what that crisis is if they find their ends here. So long as he can focus on that -- on helping Qubit -- rather than himself, he can keep moving, saving his self-turned disgust for later. The illumination in Carlisle's eyes dims as the pain subsides; the skeletons start jittering once more, not entirely lifeless, but no longer animating as quickly.]
M- Mister Qubit...
[His head hangs as he pushes himself to his feet, his voice grating at the back of his throat. A drop of ink hits the ground before him, escaping from his eye before he finally manages to right himself. Qubit's petrified silence is not giving him confidence: he seems to be looking beyond Carlisle, through him rather than at him. Is he under a compulsion? Dying? Are his insides withering? A thousand awful possibilities hit the clergyman's mind all at once. He forces himself to cut through the overwhelming anxiety, closing the gap between them step by step.]
Mister Qubit, I- I didn't mean it. I mean, I did mean it a little, but I was angry and ghk!
[He takes a step back reflexively as another pang runs through him, terrified his proximity will cause Qubit to crumble into dust. He bumps instead into a skeleton that has animated behind him, its small hands grabbing at his coat, begging for his attention. Another one comes to Qubit's side, pleading as it reaches for his arm.]