For a long moment Raistlin simply lies on the shore, stunned and struggling to breathe. Not an hour before he'd been running, with Need's help - and now -
Rage surges through him, searing away self-pity. Now he's lying helpless in the mud like some mewling babe, fighting back tears. Poor little Raistlin. Someone come save him. Well, no one was coming, so get on your damn feet and save your own life, like you always have.
He does, cursing as he goes - the gods, his brother, his own weak body. Then he begins to limp away, grimly determined to survive. Which means not going back towards the fighting. It means keeping to himself, moving slowly and carefully, far from the thick but not quite at the forest's edge.
Guts is entirely competent. Without his magic, he's just a burden.
A howl of pain echoes through the trees. Raistlin hobbles onward, gritting his teeth as becomes a roar of fury, and the metal screech of another nightrender. What would he even do? Beat it with the Staff? The Staff that was practically a children's toy now, fit only for traveling bards. Like as not it'd splinter with the first blow.
Guts bellows again, and Raistlin clenches his fist. He looks back towards the trees. The Staff is warm in his hands. It's magic is far from depleted. Magic he can't use, illusions that wouldn't fool a child -
He examines that thought again. His grip on the staff tightens. He looks away from the fight on the hill, considering.
Then he looks back, and hastens towards Guts' battle.
no subject
Rage surges through him, searing away self-pity. Now he's lying helpless in the mud like some mewling babe, fighting back tears. Poor little Raistlin. Someone come save him. Well, no one was coming, so get on your damn feet and save your own life, like you always have.
He does, cursing as he goes - the gods, his brother, his own weak body. Then he begins to limp away, grimly determined to survive. Which means not going back towards the fighting. It means keeping to himself, moving slowly and carefully, far from the thick but not quite at the forest's edge.
Guts is entirely competent. Without his magic, he's just a burden.
A howl of pain echoes through the trees. Raistlin hobbles onward, gritting his teeth as becomes a roar of fury, and the metal screech of another nightrender. What would he even do? Beat it with the Staff? The Staff that was practically a children's toy now, fit only for traveling bards. Like as not it'd splinter with the first blow.
Guts bellows again, and Raistlin clenches his fist. He looks back towards the trees. The Staff is warm in his hands. It's magic is far from depleted. Magic he can't use, illusions that wouldn't fool a child -
He examines that thought again. His grip on the staff tightens. He looks away from the fight on the hill, considering.
Then he looks back, and hastens towards Guts' battle.