[And yet somehow the weak protest dies quickly on Fawkes's lips, as even through the haze of his own nightmare, he seems to remember something from his waking hours. Hadn't Chuuya said, no friend would just stand by and watch, rules be damned? Hadn't he said that someone would've found a way to get him out, regardless of the strict stipulations that kept him in the ring and everyone else out?
Perhaps in reality, things were different, but this is a nightmare. And at the end of the day, it's still bound to dream logic, and the ultimate source of that logic is Fawkes' sleeping mind itself.
So perhaps in reality, this never would have worked. Maybe in the waking world, there had been no way out, and Fawkes was left stranded and alone.
But in the dream, that rule gives way, and the crow leaps down from the ring where he's standing, the tails of his coat spreading out like ragged wings as he lands gracefully on his feet and takes up a casual stance.
If you want to die, who am I to refuse you? he says casually, with his hands in his pockets and his limbs loose.
But then, desperate, a shout comes from Fawkes, from the ring the crow has just abandoned.]
He uses bombs!
[Now, now. Wait your turn; I'll be back for your pretty death later, says the crow, and motions idly with one hand, and a second later Fawkes's warning proves itself true in practice as an explosion goes off at the side of his leg, searing into the skin and ripping a scream from his throat.]
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[And yet somehow the weak protest dies quickly on Fawkes's lips, as even through the haze of his own nightmare, he seems to remember something from his waking hours. Hadn't Chuuya said, no friend would just stand by and watch, rules be damned? Hadn't he said that someone would've found a way to get him out, regardless of the strict stipulations that kept him in the ring and everyone else out?
Perhaps in reality, things were different, but this is a nightmare. And at the end of the day, it's still bound to dream logic, and the ultimate source of that logic is Fawkes' sleeping mind itself.
So perhaps in reality, this never would have worked. Maybe in the waking world, there had been no way out, and Fawkes was left stranded and alone.
But in the dream, that rule gives way, and the crow leaps down from the ring where he's standing, the tails of his coat spreading out like ragged wings as he lands gracefully on his feet and takes up a casual stance.
If you want to die, who am I to refuse you? he says casually, with his hands in his pockets and his limbs loose.
But then, desperate, a shout comes from Fawkes, from the ring the crow has just abandoned.]
He uses bombs!
[Now, now. Wait your turn; I'll be back for your pretty death later, says the crow, and motions idly with one hand, and a second later Fawkes's warning proves itself true in practice as an explosion goes off at the side of his leg, searing into the skin and ripping a scream from his throat.]