[ If Claude had the choice between drowning and being burnt to death, he would choose drowning. No contest.
He glances just in time for an arrow to burst into the meat of his shoulder, digging past the bone and sinew. It's not unfamiliar, he's been hit by arrows before, but it burns. The arrowhead is jagged and alive, tearing through flesh as it continues it's trajectory even after its momentum is spent until its burrowed a hole clean through his shoulder, leaving him to bleed.
Great. ]
This is—
[ Hell. Quite literally. The words come out as a gasp, and the chains tighten around them, stealing his words as another weapon flies at them, a rusted polearm finding home in Sylvain's gut. ]
sylvain doesn't have any opportunity to respond. the polearm dives clean through his gut, and the momentum should be enough to sway him—but the chains hold him fast in their slow and painful descent past clothing and into flesh. (the smell is barbaric, and not unfamiliar. he has an affinity for fire spells after all, has used them before on the battlefield and has been targeted in turn.)
but it isn't enough punishment, not nearly. the spear lodged in his torso begins to twist of its own accord, slow but unmistakably, the haft splintering open in mockery of his relic, jagged ends tearing new tracks into skin, muscle and organ.
he can only watch as blood and viscera spills out of him, mind beginning to slip into a state of shock as his own scream blurs between his ears. his thrashing inevitably begins to subside, skin growing clammy despite the hellish heat. one of the chains sears past the bone of his forearm, severing it from his elbow.
another arrow fires, and another, and he blearily gazes up to see one of them catch claude through the throat. ]
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no subject
He glances just in time for an arrow to burst into the meat of his shoulder, digging past the bone and sinew. It's not unfamiliar, he's been hit by arrows before, but it burns. The arrowhead is jagged and alive, tearing through flesh as it continues it's trajectory even after its momentum is spent until its burrowed a hole clean through his shoulder, leaving him to bleed.
Great. ]
This is—
[ Hell. Quite literally. The words come out as a gasp, and the chains tighten around them, stealing his words as another weapon flies at them, a rusted polearm finding home in Sylvain's gut. ]
no subject
sylvain doesn't have any opportunity to respond. the polearm dives clean through his gut, and the momentum should be enough to sway him—but the chains hold him fast in their slow and painful descent past clothing and into flesh. (the smell is barbaric, and not unfamiliar. he has an affinity for fire spells after all, has used them before on the battlefield and has been targeted in turn.)
but it isn't enough punishment, not nearly. the spear lodged in his torso begins to twist of its own accord, slow but unmistakably, the haft splintering open in mockery of his relic, jagged ends tearing new tracks into skin, muscle and organ.
he can only watch as blood and viscera spills out of him, mind beginning to slip into a state of shock as his own scream blurs between his ears. his thrashing inevitably begins to subside, skin growing clammy despite the hellish heat. one of the chains sears past the bone of his forearm, severing it from his elbow.
another arrow fires, and another, and he blearily gazes up to see one of them catch claude through the throat. ]