Fine! I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine I just- desth, I was not expecting that to hurt so much!
[He swears again under his breath, grabbing hold of the other, once-idle zombie with his good hand, not bothering to wait for his seized arm to relax. No time for such things, unfortunately. Maybe this will hurt less with a larger pack on the glyphs, he considers, as channeling energy into a glyph is a less direct method of dispatching them; however, for individual undeads, this is likely not the best way to go about taking care of them. If nothing else, it is effective, the zombie crumbling to dust beneath his hand like the one before.
Grinding his teeth, Carlisle shakes his limbs, his eyes squeezing shut as he tries to block out the searing sting of volatile, opposing energies coursing through him. The restorative ones used to obliterate the undead butt against those keeping him animated, and he considers briefly that he's very, very lucky the manipulation of such magic doesn't cause a similar reaction in him, given what he is. He could be lying in a pile of ashen dust on the ground rather than some nameless shamblers, destroyed from the inside-out through improper control of his own energy. Maybe it is his level of expertise with healing arts that allows him to—
He shakes his head, interrupting his train of thought to consider that later, perhaps when they're not on a mission. For now, Eyeball remains furious, slamming into the shelf again, this time with his body, as one arm -- his right one, the first one Carlisle used -- hangs limply by his sides, deadened. He's too mindless to care, but Carlisle takes notice of it, his eyes narrowing. Was he like that before? Surely.
But there's that nagging feeling at the back of Carlisle's mind that he's not imagining things, and he doesn't like it one bit.]
no subject
[He swears again under his breath, grabbing hold of the other, once-idle zombie with his good hand, not bothering to wait for his seized arm to relax. No time for such things, unfortunately. Maybe this will hurt less with a larger pack on the glyphs, he considers, as channeling energy into a glyph is a less direct method of dispatching them; however, for individual undeads, this is likely not the best way to go about taking care of them. If nothing else, it is effective, the zombie crumbling to dust beneath his hand like the one before.
Grinding his teeth, Carlisle shakes his limbs, his eyes squeezing shut as he tries to block out the searing sting of volatile, opposing energies coursing through him. The restorative ones used to obliterate the undead butt against those keeping him animated, and he considers briefly that he's very, very lucky the manipulation of such magic doesn't cause a similar reaction in him, given what he is. He could be lying in a pile of ashen dust on the ground rather than some nameless shamblers, destroyed from the inside-out through improper control of his own energy. Maybe it is his level of expertise with healing arts that allows him to—
He shakes his head, interrupting his train of thought to consider that later, perhaps when they're not on a mission. For now, Eyeball remains furious, slamming into the shelf again, this time with his body, as one arm -- his right one, the first one Carlisle used -- hangs limply by his sides, deadened. He's too mindless to care, but Carlisle takes notice of it, his eyes narrowing. Was he like that before? Surely.
But there's that nagging feeling at the back of Carlisle's mind that he's not imagining things, and he doesn't like it one bit.]