[The flicker of recollection shouldn't be so frightening—a little redheaded girl, old enough to perhaps be learning the times tables or wondering why English spelling has to be the way that it is, glares up at a hard-faced man in military fatigues decorated with insignia no one from Earth would recognize, save for one shoulder sporting an anachronistic Confederate battle flag—but it's saturated with fear and anger and a grim, unshakable resolution that for a moment make the memory more real than the world around them. Stuff like that happens when a telepath freaks out. Sorry.
The Holy Frying Pan (blessed be its cast iron) breaks the Nightrender's hold, and Kerrigan snaps back to the present to hear a mild-voiced man saying something in an apologetic tone. The content doesn't register, but it (and the holiness radiating off him like sanctity from an ange—uh, never mind) makes her subconscious mark him as no threat, and with one of those kung fu movie maneuvers that only the appallingly athletic can manage she's on her feet, squaring off with the Nightrender.
Did you know that even abominations anathema to the very soul are vulnerable to judo throws as long as they're basically humanoid? Neither did Kerrigan, but she's still pleased with the result. Following through the movement, she scoops her discarded and apparently useless rifle from the grass and whirls on Aziraphale, long red ponytail still swinging with the motion after the rest of her has stopped, her eyes slicing into him for a moment. It's the same implacable stare as the little redhead in the memory, but after a fraction of a second, it softens.
He seems nice.]
That was you? Great, thanks, time to go.
[With her free hand, she grabs for his wrist, ready to haul him off behind her as she sprints away from an enemy she can't kill.]
OOC: Kerrigan's telepathy permissions, but I'm taking what I assume is the uncontroversial position that a literal archangel casting holy spells comes across as safe to a telepath.
c1.
The Holy Frying Pan (blessed be its cast iron) breaks the Nightrender's hold, and Kerrigan snaps back to the present to hear a mild-voiced man saying something in an apologetic tone. The content doesn't register, but it (and the holiness radiating off him like sanctity from an ange—uh, never mind) makes her subconscious mark him as no threat, and with one of those kung fu movie maneuvers that only the appallingly athletic can manage she's on her feet, squaring off with the Nightrender.
Did you know that even abominations anathema to the very soul are vulnerable to judo throws as long as they're basically humanoid? Neither did Kerrigan, but she's still pleased with the result. Following through the movement, she scoops her discarded and apparently useless rifle from the grass and whirls on Aziraphale, long red ponytail still swinging with the motion after the rest of her has stopped, her eyes slicing into him for a moment. It's the same implacable stare as the little redhead in the memory, but after a fraction of a second, it softens.
He seems nice.]
That was you? Great, thanks, time to go.
[With her free hand, she grabs for his wrist, ready to haul him off behind her as she sprints away from an enemy she can't kill.]
OOC: Kerrigan's telepathy permissions, but I'm taking what I assume is the uncontroversial position that a literal archangel casting holy spells comes across as safe to a telepath.