05-05-2014, 12:49 PM
With the surge of invincibility came the heightened awareness in the dark. He could make out the flutter of Thalia's eyelashes, the beads of sweat on Katya's face. Dane slowly lifted his gaze to turn the powers of sight toward the exterior tunnel. Wrapped in the cocoon like in a warm blanket as he was, the sudden flood of animosity that rushed his senses was earth-shatteringly cold.
Hands, monstrously bright, and not of his own making, drowned him in light, and suddenly the train car rushed around him: poles, seats, wide-eyed witnesses. His back slammed into the far wall and punched the air from Dane's lungs.
He threw shaking hands to his chest, but the struggle for breath was overwhelmed by the rise of panic throbbing his heart with pain. His toes reached, but the floor teased its secure surface too far below.
The open-mouthed shock of the moment led him to flick narrowed eyes for the source of the assault. The source of the Light that was his weapon.
He found it. Jon. The man was near Thalia, now, and Katya, and a poisonous spit of possessiveness bored from the twin marbles that replaced Dane's eyes. His lip curled, disgust for himself and for the sensation Jon elicited from the depths of Dane's suppression.
He struck the ropes holding him with barbed whips of his own. The connection recoiled like a severed limb, and Dane dropped deftly to the floor.
He smoothed the hair that dusted his forehead with dishevelment, and he took a step forward. Those seated on his left and right pulled their legs in, giving him room to walk, while others huddled together. He paid them no heed.
His eyes darted between Thalia and Jon: the frightened butterfly and the man slapping at her delicate wings. But it was the aggressor in the cabin that quickly won immensity of Dane's focus. If he were closer, he would have drawn a knuckle down Jon's cheek and whisper in his ear.
Instead, he spoke, posh and distant. A warning. "You're playing with fire, Jon."
Yes, he remembered the man's name, and height, and hair color, and the pitiful accent.
Power raged like a beast trapped in the cage of Dane's mind. The English gentleman took a wide stance, body tilted ever so slightly at an angle, and seemingly transformed before their eyes into something raw and angry always kept out of sight that when unleashed, whipped barbs with enough force to chord the veins in his forehead to the surface.
Hands, monstrously bright, and not of his own making, drowned him in light, and suddenly the train car rushed around him: poles, seats, wide-eyed witnesses. His back slammed into the far wall and punched the air from Dane's lungs.
He threw shaking hands to his chest, but the struggle for breath was overwhelmed by the rise of panic throbbing his heart with pain. His toes reached, but the floor teased its secure surface too far below.
The open-mouthed shock of the moment led him to flick narrowed eyes for the source of the assault. The source of the Light that was his weapon.
He found it. Jon. The man was near Thalia, now, and Katya, and a poisonous spit of possessiveness bored from the twin marbles that replaced Dane's eyes. His lip curled, disgust for himself and for the sensation Jon elicited from the depths of Dane's suppression.
He struck the ropes holding him with barbed whips of his own. The connection recoiled like a severed limb, and Dane dropped deftly to the floor.
He smoothed the hair that dusted his forehead with dishevelment, and he took a step forward. Those seated on his left and right pulled their legs in, giving him room to walk, while others huddled together. He paid them no heed.
His eyes darted between Thalia and Jon: the frightened butterfly and the man slapping at her delicate wings. But it was the aggressor in the cabin that quickly won immensity of Dane's focus. If he were closer, he would have drawn a knuckle down Jon's cheek and whisper in his ear.
Instead, he spoke, posh and distant. A warning. "You're playing with fire, Jon."
Yes, he remembered the man's name, and height, and hair color, and the pitiful accent.
Power raged like a beast trapped in the cage of Dane's mind. The English gentleman took a wide stance, body tilted ever so slightly at an angle, and seemingly transformed before their eyes into something raw and angry always kept out of sight that when unleashed, whipped barbs with enough force to chord the veins in his forehead to the surface.