[ Adra presses his forehead to Gil's back during the climb, eyes squeezed shut. Not because he's afraid: he has faith in Gil, and faith in the Light, and he knows all will be well on their ascent. Rather, he's trying to manage the flow of mana. Ordinarily, he would refuse the channel, but that spell really did take just about everything he had. He needs restoration; if he doesn't take it, he's liable to just fall off of Gil and crash however many miles it is to the earth below.
So he lets the channels stay open. As always, the magic is a drug, and he's intoxicated by it, in thrall to it. Their mana burns in his bloodstream, and he wants as much of it as he can get, wants to gorge beyond simple satisfaction and into pleasurable gluttony. But he won't--he won't, he can't, he has to stay focused.
He inhales sharply. It's a struggle.
But they do land, at last, and he stumbles back, his vision hazy. Light, it's so good.
He rubs the side of his face, glancing around blearily, and mutters. ]
At least there's a floor.
[ And such pretty waterfalls ... he starts wandering towards them. Thirsty, still. ]
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So he lets the channels stay open. As always, the magic is a drug, and he's intoxicated by it, in thrall to it. Their mana burns in his bloodstream, and he wants as much of it as he can get, wants to gorge beyond simple satisfaction and into pleasurable gluttony. But he won't--he won't, he can't, he has to stay focused.
He inhales sharply. It's a struggle.
But they do land, at last, and he stumbles back, his vision hazy. Light, it's so good.
He rubs the side of his face, glancing around blearily, and mutters. ]
At least there's a floor.
[ And such pretty waterfalls ... he starts wandering towards them. Thirsty, still. ]