Donnie hates to acknowledge that a blade and more firepower make for more efficiency in a fight. He still hasn't forgotten the first time he'd been in actual battle, the first time it had really hit him that people died here.
He remembers how easily Nephenee had cut through Imperial soldiers as though they were nothing but ragdolls, and the blood that was everywhere. The knowledge that from thereon out, things would never be the same.
He remembers the cold rage and raw panic when Adolfus Gundhir had grabbed Shu's tail, distilled into a white-hot point of focus that he fashioned into his own magical blade, the first time Donnie had created the glaive, right before slicing off the man's offending hand.
He remembers the crushed body of a soldier lying smashed under a cannonball of his same creation.
Nausea grips at him, underlined by the overwhelming scent of blood. Donnie falters in his concentration, his bladed fizzling out mid-arc and it's like the soldier smells that hesitation, that sudden spike of fear. That flat of their own blade smacks hard against the turtlekin as he nearly folds over it by the impact, and just as he starts to fly back, with a horrible, maddened grin of bloodied teeth, the soldier turns his wrist so the blade cuts in just as it starts to pull away.
Donnie is flung, sent crashing into a wooden loading cart with enough force to splinter it.
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Date: 2025-04-11 05:04 pm (UTC)He remembers how easily Nephenee had cut through Imperial soldiers as though they were nothing but ragdolls, and the blood that was everywhere. The knowledge that from thereon out, things would never be the same.
He remembers the cold rage and raw panic when Adolfus Gundhir had grabbed Shu's tail, distilled into a white-hot point of focus that he fashioned into his own magical blade, the first time Donnie had created the glaive, right before slicing off the man's offending hand.
He remembers the crushed body of a soldier lying smashed under a cannonball of his same creation.
Nausea grips at him, underlined by the overwhelming scent of blood. Donnie falters in his concentration, his bladed fizzling out mid-arc and it's like the soldier smells that hesitation, that sudden spike of fear. That flat of their own blade smacks hard against the turtlekin as he nearly folds over it by the impact, and just as he starts to fly back, with a horrible, maddened grin of bloodied teeth, the soldier turns his wrist so the blade cuts in just as it starts to pull away.
Donnie is flung, sent crashing into a wooden loading cart with enough force to splinter it.