[ In a normal world, he'd simply teleport away — with or without the catboy in tow, whatever suited his mood at the time. Here, however, he hasn't that luxury.
No, as ever Emet-Selch is simply convinced that he's on the receiving end of one of fate's cruel jokes. As if being here was not enough, as if being here with several members of the Warrior of Light's retinue was not enough. He seems to be destined to be stuck in situations with this man in particular, situations where they are better served by working together than being at odds.
How annoying. ]
If you've a particular fondness for pocket lint and old receipts, then by all means, help yourselves.
[ The remark earns him an unkind jab between his shoulder blades with the business end of a rifle. ]
No one asked you, smart-ass.
[ Emet-Selch simply lifts a shoulder. ]
Suit yourself.
[ With his hands still raised above his head, Emet-Selch simply does what it is he does best, and snaps his fingers. There is a brief moment of silence, enough for someone to start to voice some sort of question or further demand, and then quite suddenly, a hail of purple, luminous spears rain down on the men surrounding them.
Some of them strike true, some don't, but either way, the scene is chaos between flying magicks and the cloud of dirt and viscera kicked up by the repeated impacts. Now would be the time to run, but in the distance, drawn by the sounds of chaos, a beam of light begins to sweep over the grass. ]
no subject
No, as ever Emet-Selch is simply convinced that he's on the receiving end of one of fate's cruel jokes. As if being here was not enough, as if being here with several members of the Warrior of Light's retinue was not enough. He seems to be destined to be stuck in situations with this man in particular, situations where they are better served by working together than being at odds.
How annoying. ]
If you've a particular fondness for pocket lint and old receipts, then by all means, help yourselves.
[ The remark earns him an unkind jab between his shoulder blades with the business end of a rifle. ]
No one asked you, smart-ass.
[ Emet-Selch simply lifts a shoulder. ]
Suit yourself.
[ With his hands still raised above his head, Emet-Selch simply does what it is he does best, and snaps his fingers. There is a brief moment of silence, enough for someone to start to voice some sort of question or further demand, and then quite suddenly, a hail of purple, luminous spears rain down on the men surrounding them.
Some of them strike true, some don't, but either way, the scene is chaos between flying magicks and the cloud of dirt and viscera kicked up by the repeated impacts. Now would be the time to run, but in the distance, drawn by the sounds of chaos, a beam of light begins to sweep over the grass. ]